


Agony to Love You

by BigScaryDinos



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, F/F, F/M, Fucking, Gore, M/M, Past Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Indulgent, Threesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 43,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigScaryDinos/pseuds/BigScaryDinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not satisfied without some pain - because vanilla is boring.<br/>30 chapters, based loosely off the gore challenge, each chapter has it's own setting and pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01. Deflowering. {Ramsay/Sansa/Reek}

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nanjcsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanjcsy/gifts).



> Basically this is going to be 30 chapters, based ever so loosely off of the gore challenge I saw floating around a while back. I'm not going to use all the themes, I'm going to change others. Mostly Bolton pairings but I'm sure I'll stick a few strange ones in here and there. I will try to update at least once a week. Each is going to be 500 - 1,500 words. No more. None of these will be connected unless I make a note that they are, so some will be modern AU, some will be TV cannon, some book cannon, others are completely pulled out of my ass. So in the spirit of the show, let's enjoy some Sansa x Ramsay x Reek. Enjoy?

“Sansa, sweetling, get over here.” Her fingers shook. This was her father’s bed even though the room was different. Pinks and reds where there were greys before.  _ Not Joff. He’s not that bad. Besides..he’s not his father. _ She hadn’t even feigned happiness at her second wedding. She repeated the words she had said before, was wrapped in a pink cloak and bundled up and off to the bedroom. These Bolton’s didn’t much believe in post wedding celebrations it seemed. She thought of her brother and betrayal, then felt bile in her throat. 

 

It had been one thing to get through a ceremony in front of a hundred scowling faces - this however was what made her stomach turn into an angry nest of snakes. Her newest husband sat on the bed, stripped down to just his breeches. Dark supple leather, he lounged waiting for her atop her own father’s wolf skins. 

 

_ I am a wolf, of House Stark. I will do what needs to be done to survive. Winter is coming.  _ She had never imagined giving her maidenhood over to a stranger she’d met two days past, never thought it would be son of the man who had murdered her brother; but she had never imagined a great deal of things that had happened to her.  _ My mother did it, she learned to love my father. They were good. They were kind. They were strangers. He’s not his father. I’m not my mother. My mother is dead because of his father. _

 

She tried to bite back the pain that had swamped her brain. He may not be perfect, but he did not have a crossbow to her head as she stood before him. He had not been the one to pull the knife at the wedding. She had heard stories all the same. She had heard he had wed a woman then locked her up to die. They found her with stumps where her fingers should be and blood smeared around her mouth. She heard he had taken Winterfell and murdered Theon, the turncloak who killed her brothers. There was good and bad in each person. Some had more good than bad, others tipped the other way. She did not know which way this scale tipped yet.

 

“Come to bed.” His voice a pinch sharper. She was still in her second wedding dress. Grey and soft and what she should have worn to her own northern wedding. She approached the bed at her husband’s command. She sat on the edge and began to take off her dress, feeling the silk slip over her skin. She could remember another wedding night, another girl, another dress taken off - then she had felt small hands on her arm and she had stopped. This time there was no stopping. 

 

When she was stripped bare she covered her chest with her arms, turning red.  He’s my husband she thought again and again but it would not sooth her. She thought of her mother’s words.  _ Family. Duty. Honor. _ She was the last Stark. This was her duty. He tugged away her hands and pressed one palm up her thigh to touch were her legs met. His fingers were as frozen as his eyes were. His father had the same eyes. She wondered for the thousandth time since coming home if those eyes were the last thing her brother had seen.   


 

She hadn’t felt the tears coming until they were drying on her cheeks. She wanted so badly to push her legs back together, but he was her husband. Ramsay pulled back his hand as if he were burned. 

 

“Dry.” His eyes rolled, his patience thin. Much thinner than Tyrion’s had been. “Reek.” He roared. Sansa felt terror growing, something she had tried to fight with for a time but it always won out. Her heart raced. 

 

When the door opened Theon stood in the frame, his eyes locked on the ground. Sansa felt the moment of terror, a ghost come to kill the last Stark, take her father’s castle, hang her from the walls like her brothers. He would strip her to the bone and leave her skin for the crows to fight over. Then she felt anger. Seething and red as the banners on the walls. Finally she felt pity wash over her. This wasn’t Theon. Not really. This was somebody else. When his mouth opened there was more darkness in his mouth than teeth. No hint of his cocky smile she had seen so long ago. His eyes were nervous, looking everywhere but the bed before him. His smell preceded him. 

 

“My bride needs some help.” Sansa’s blood drained. Eyes locked for a second before he approached the bed. As he got closer she saw more and worse. He crawled between her legs. Felt rough fabric scraping the tips of her toes when his torn tunic brushed against the soft skin. Saw the matted dark hair so long and unkempt with knots larger than the knuckles on her fist. Stray strands fell out upon her bare calves as she tried to pull away from him. She felt chapped lips touching her thigh, felt incomplete hands on her legs.  When he finally rested above her maidenhood she did try to shut her legs, but her new husband grabbed her knees and wrenched them apart.

 

“Sweetling, I’m doing you a favor.” His eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight. A hand clasped down over her mouth before she could scream, a rough tongue began lapping at her methodically. She could remember how all the serving girls talked about Theon; but this - Ramsay’s hand rested over her mouth as her tears flowed fresh. She tossed her legs against his shoulders and he was kicked away for a time; then he would return to his post and continue on as if this were typical business. He took no ounce of pleasure from this, she knew that much. 

 

“I won’t have you screaming over anyone but me tonight dearest. Reek, since my pet isn’t appreciating your efforts come here and help me then.” He laid back, as Theon - no not Theon, not anymore crawled between his legs. His thick pink cock disappeared between those broken lips. He thrust deeply into Reek’s mouth as Sansa writhed, struggling to get away. She pushed against the wolf skins, trying to untangle herself from Ramsay’s hands. While the two fought Reek worked. 

 

“Enough.” He pushed Reek away, who fell with an altogether too loud cracking on the floor. “This is the thanks I get for trying to assist you. Should I call you princess now?” His sly smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth but it never reach his eyes. Sansa had nearly gotten from the bed when Ramsay’s hand fell on her ankle and tugged her back almost effortlessly. She kicked and thrashed and he held her down all the same. 

 

“I’d suggest you learn to enjoy this. You’ll bear my plenty of sons in time” When he took her maidenhood it was rough, painful. The burning from between her legs spread to her stomach then her chest. She screamed and he let her as his teeth found a new home in the soft skin of her shoulder. Her legs kicked, he pushed them away. He held her hands down.  When her right hand escaped his grasp she managed to drag her nails down his face. Four long scratches marred his face from eye to chin. 

 

“Reek, she has some fight left, come hold her hands for me.” 

 

“Theon please, no.” Her first real words to him since he had entered the room. She tossed under her husband’s body. Her legs kicked uselessly as he thrust into her.  She turned her eyes to meet his - praying to whatever gods may have heard for him to understand her pleas.“Theon, please, for my family, we - we always loved you. Robb - you were his brother.” For a second she could see a glint in those dead looking eyes. Ramsay didn’t stop. She chewed her lip.  _ I am a wolf. Wolves do not scream.  _

 

“Yes, Theon may have had brothers - but I killed them all. I killed Theon too. Now all that’s left is Reek and he has me.” The glint vanished out of those eyes. His hands fingerless and twisted still had some strength enough to hold Sansa down. When she screamed she thought it sounded more like a howl. 

 

 


	2. 02. Pet Play {Reek / Ramsay}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For nanjcsy. Consensual Modern AU. Collars, Puppy Play. Theon figures out what he likes. Ramsay likes it too.

 

 

Theon sat and waited. He’d learned early on that waiting was the best thing he could do, that and stay silent. His mouth shut, his knees sore from the floor, but he wouldn’t voice any complaints today.  He was being good. It was all part of the game. A game that was always going on, a game that didn’t have an end or a beginning. There were just fuzzy spaces, pieces that had been tossed across the room long ago, an a crumpled sheet of rules with blurry writing. 

 

He had learned he had issues a while back. When he had tried so hard to have a normal relationship and couldn’t. He had tried everything, every damned thing he could think of to make his life work. Girlfriends left after one night stands. Boyfriends didn’t stick around much longer. He wasn’t ever really satisfied in bed and the few that could tolerate his strange needs often left because _he_ couldn’t stay with them. They’d find him curled up around somebody else in a corner of a seedy bar and that would be it. Then he met Ramsay. 

 

There was something about him, tall, thick, intimidating. That was a word that flickered through his mind. When he nestled up to the dark stranger sitting at a bar stool one night he rested his palm against an exposed bicep and found himself amazed. His breath caught in his throat when he felt muscles flex under his hand.

 

“Let me buy you a drink.” He had said, and thinking back he supposed that was the very start of it all. There was the shortest chase. Fingertips on kneecaps under a table. Shots of bottom shelf liquor. In the end he let himself be caught easily enough. As they made the trip back to his place he thought of cavemen who tossed their mates over their shoulder and dragged them home. Looking up through a mess of dark curls he thought Ramsay would have no problem doing that. 

 

They wasted no time that first night and when Ramsay all too happily tied Theon to the bed-frame he knew this one would last. The blindfold was his idea. He felt the pitter pattering of love somewhere in the cockles of his heart then shook it off because hey, he never believed in things like that. That night things were tame for them - which is to say not very tame to most others. Theon was flecked with bruises and bitemarks and long trails of red marks on both thighs. He woke with an ache in his shoulder and no feeling in either thumb from being tied all night, but next to him was a silky puddle of long dark hair and the man who it belonged to with his head thrown back on Theon’s shitty  flat pillows. 

 

Then the game really started. 

 

He couldn’t remember the day he had stopped walking around on two feet, calling his boyfriend by his name, acting normal. It just seemed like in the beginning they were together, fucking and sleeping and eating and occasionally doing something strange like going out in public, although that wasn’t something that happened often. Then somewhere after that - and Theon just liked to think of it as after, things changed. The power dynamic always shifted in Ramsay’s favor. There was something about him, his shadow always leering over him even when he was home alone. At the end of the day it was so easy to curl against him and get lost there. Clearly Ramsay was the one with the power.   


 

One night, bored and stoned and desperate for a cock inside him, Theon got on his hands and knees and knelt at Ramsay’s lap, panting with his tongue out. For whatever reason, maybe the high or the full moon or the way Theon’s lips were so wet and glistening and needy Ramsay felt himself become harder than ever. He throbbed as he struggled with his fly, forced himself to hold back when Theon let out a happy whimper in the back of his throat. 

 

“Is my little puppy hungry?” His voice betrayed him, he felt the cracking but both parties ignored it as Theon’s head swung wildly up and down. Opening his mouth and letting out a whiny bark. After an Earth shattering blowjob Ramsay fucked his new pet  so hard Theon laid in bed until well after four pm the next day just trying to get his legs to stop shaking. 

 

The game escalated, Theon found himself panting and barking and whining more than speaking.He crawled around and begged for Ramsay's hand to stroke his hair as he curled at  his Master's feet. After weeks of this Ramsay decided that his new pet needed his own name, after all it was all too confusing when you called your dog by your boyfriends name. Ramsay wanted something doggy, Spot or Butch. Spike or Lucky. Something generic that made Theon roll his eyes and ask if that man had an inch of imagination in him. Theon wanted something insulting. There was something that made him shiver when he was called something foul during sex, especially when those words slithered through those thick lips that made him shake with need. Cunt, Slut, Whore, Bitch. None of those seemed to work, they _were_ names, but not a real name for a dog. 

 

Finally on the rarest occasion that they went out Theon got ready, doused himself in cologne and tried walking out of the apartment but was stopped by a thick arm blocking the front door. Those bright icy eyes hovered before him, and he couldn’t do much but gawk. 

 

“You positively reek. I’m not taking you out smelling like my grandfather” There was just something about how he said it that worked and so now he became Reek. 

 

So now Reek waited. Ramsay would be coming home any minute now, and he needed to be ready and waiting at the door for his Master. He swore up and down to himself that he _would_ be good today, but it was so hard. It was far too addictive to be bad, to disobey, to get his punishment which was always getting better and better. His cock twitched as he thought about those rough fingers coming down hard on his ass. In his mind he could see his flesh turning bright red, he whined to the empty apartment. 

 

He stayed still. If he was very good maybe he’d get punished anyway, maybe, _just maybe_ he’d do something little later. Maybe he would just let something slip. If he could feel that grip on his arm, bruising the skin - no. He would be good. 

 

And when Ramsay came home, tired and drained he saw his pet waiting perfectly still for him.  Reek followed, hands and knees trailing after him, cowering under his feet, desperate for the slightest bit of praise. He had been good hadn’t he? His heart sunk to think Ramsay didn’t want to play tonight. 

 

Reek was just about to give up, surrender and stand up, become Theon again and wrap himself around the body before him and press his face into the crook of Ramsay’s neck and sleep until his body stopped craving - when Ramsay turned his attention to him.

 

“Pet, I have a gift for you.” Reek sat back on his legs, his hands at his sides, waiting patiently while Ramsay dug through his bag, the one he always took to work, the one that now held something extra special.  When he removed the small box he held it out, an offering. 

 

Reek took it, his fingers opening the cardboard to reveal a collar, black supple leather. A chain curled up underneath it. The best was the tag dangling from it. One of those metal bone shaped plates you can buy at any pet store. But instead of Spot or Cunt or Slut or Skippy his little bone said Reek. Tears came easily enough when Ramsay slipped the leather around his neck. 

 

He was never suppose to talk, dogs just didn’t talk. He had learned that when his Master was fucking him once and he choked out a barely audible ‘harder’ which was met with a hand pushing his face into the carpet hard enough to cause rugburn on both cheeks. For weeks afterwards he looked like he had a sunburn. He thought back and decided just this once he could break the rules and get away with it. 

 

“Thank you.” He said, as softly as he could, as gently as he could. He swung his head around from side to side loving the feeling of the collar on his neck. It was the best gift he could have ever received. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consensual? What? Honestly though - I really hope you guys enjoy something different, written for the always lovely nanjcsy because she's going through some tough times and deserves something nice. Not sure if this is nice or not, but hey I tried? Tried to fit in just about everything you gave me. I hope this makes your day a little better. <3


	3. 03. Nosebleed { Domeric/Ramsay }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Prep school, because I have a thing for uniforms. And blood.

 

They were sitting outside, perched on the gym’s steps trying to breath the thick air in. Nearly everyone else was in class. Ramsay’s sophomore section was in the middle of a biology lab while Domeric’s senior class was having some kind of lecture in the auditorium. Probably some kind of preparation for graduation. Ramsay took every chance he could for a smoke break, sneaking out the gym doors that were always unlocked. He would send Domeric a text to tell him to meet him outside and his brother was almost always waiting for him, tapping his foot.

 

Domeric was one of the only people in the entire building to choose to spend time with the awkward looking boy who was prone to violence more often than not. Domeric would be leaning against the ancient railings in his pristine uniform. He would be chipping pieces of worn paint from the metal with his thumbnail - always anxious to get back to class although no action would ever be taken against him if he were caught skipping.  Today was just like the others, the threat of rain hung heavy in the April sky, dampening both boy’s shirts with humidity. The two sat in silence, resting on the stone and smoking while watching the occasional car speed down the road before them. That’s when it started. 

 

It started as trickle, just a few drops that nestled into the budding dark hair of his upper lip. One, then two, then three splatters. Then it turned to a gentle flow. Ramsay watched with a sick fascination, squinting to see through the smoke. He’d never seen blood that brilliant, his own always seemed to be a dulled rust shade. This was a splash of sunrise on snowy skin. He held his breath, afraid to make the trickle dry up but instead it flowed a bit more heavily. Silently he flicked his cigarette into the gravel besides the steps. He didn’t want to say anything didn’t want to ruin this moment. He clamped his mouth shut. 

 

Domeric noticed, he always did, his fingers swiped under his nose - felt the moisture on his hand and looked down. There it was, a bright brutal stripe of his humanity turned inside out of him. He looked at it for a moment, stubbed his own cigarette out, then made to get up to clean his hand off or perhaps try to stop the blood that was now gushing out. Whatever had made it happen - be a it open scab or a bursting aneurysm Ramsay didn’t care. He was just transfixed and couldn’t look away. 

 

“Don’t.” Ramsay hissed, barely audible. He himself was shocked it came out between his teeth but it was enough and Domeric stopped in his tracks. 

 

“Don’t what?”  Ramsay didn’t have an answer. He for once was utterly speechless and couldn’t wrap his mind in a clear thought. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t even try if he had wanted to. Instead he stood up, Domeric sat back down. Don’t touch that, he wanted to say - but what exactly was  _ that _ . There was something irresistible about the droplets of red on Domeric’s white button up. Crisp and perfect and ironed to it’s starchy shape; now slapped with red drops besides the wilted quality it somehow took on in the hazy outside air. 

 

“Let me - I’ll just.” But he didn’t finish his thought, he just acted. He preferred action to words, words could only convey so much. Domeric was a speaker, he wanted to hear all the options out loud, but Ramsay was a doer. So he just did. He draped his leg across his brother’s lap and sat down, face to face with the trickle of blood. Ramsay would have noticed the wide eyed coolness Domeric attempted to portray if he could only look away, but it didn’t matter. His fingers ghosted across where the gore touched lips, staining the pink a darker shade. His fingers came away sticky. He looked at the redness, the realness and wondered if that was all inside him. If he could hold something so bright in his own body. He decided it wasn’t possible at all, there was no way his rusty insides could ever gleam with moisture. It’d be much more likely to slit his belly open and reveal a nasty nest of black wriggling snakes sooner than seen this vibrancy.

 

He felt his brother’s hand pulling his fingers from his mouth - he hadn’t known when he had slipped the digits past his own lips but there they were, coating his tongue in metal. He swallowed hard, trying to get the taste to coat the back of his mouth but it wouldn’t go past his molars. Then there were lips against his own, soft and wet and getting wetter with every second. He felt the shared drip of blood mingle on his lips, slip through his teeth, make a home inside his skull. Addictive and bitter he clung to the taste until he felt Domeric push him off, pull him up, press him against the railing. If anyone came outside - Ramsay’s cock stirred. 

 

Then it was gone, all the feeling, the hot sweaty hands against his shoulders, the iron in his mouth. Before he could understand what occurred he heard the gym doors banging shut in the frame, the terrible sound marrying with the clap of thunder. He nearly jumped - but just for a second. As the rain started his fingers swiped at the remaining blood on his own lips, his own face - he licked his fingers clean. 

 

 


	4. 04. Undead / Zombie {Theon. Davos. Stannis. Aeron}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No pairings today. Modern Cult AU. Some humor maybe?

 

 

“Do you want to hear my story or not?” Officer Seaworth and Sergeant Baratheon stared at me as if I were some kind of bug, waiting to be squished. I wondered who was the good cop and who was the bad cop. Seaworth told me to call him David. I guess that put him down as good cop - for now at least. 

 

Bloody, coated in mud, my hair still damp and sticking to my face; my appearance was my own worst enemy. I was missing a finger, it hurt like a bitch, but I had no idea where it went to - probably one of those monster’s stomachs. If I could close my eyes I could picture it dissolving into zombie stomach acid. Do zombies even have stomach acid? I wanted to scream, pulled out my hair. Nobody was going to believe me. I had to try anyway.

 

“Alright son. Just listen, just tell us what you know and we’ll decide what to do from there.” Officer Seaworth said, I liked the man. His right hand was all messed up, I felt the throbbing of my own missing finger and felt I could trust him So I sighed, took a sip of the lukewarm coffee they’d given me swallowing the burnt taste like medication and began. 

 

“So when I was about ten I was kicked out of my house. One of my brothers got sent to jail, the other died in a car accident. My mother had a mental breakdown, my dad couldn’t handle my wild side so I went from building to building with whoever wanted me. I stayed with my uncles for a bit, a few estranged aunts who had married those uncles then got quick divorces, a few friends of the family. I tore every place down. 

 

I did a lot of things I regretted. The few people who were my friends - I fucked them over. That’s the best I can tell you. Robb, he was the best, he let me get away with just about anything, but one night when a - well a business deal went south his family paid for it instead of me and that was all he could stomach of me. I met up with an old boyfriend, got the shit kicked out of me a few times. I learned my lesson with that one and left, later rather than sooner with a new addiction to boot and no place to go. 

 

That’s when I heard about my uncle Aaron, he’s always been a nice guy, a bit eccentric but hey, I can’t fault him on that. I called him and was told he was starting a clean living compound somewhere here in Missouri. I traveled half the world for him after he wired me enough money to make the trip. So I ended up on this huge plot of land, helping him build shelters for his following. He’d gotten...crazy over the years. He went from a nice _out there_ kind of guy to somebody who had some kind of religious awakening. He was in a fishing accident - my whole family was fishers. He nearly drowned. Well if you ask him he says he did drown. He says he died and came back and this kind of personified god to help the people of the world become better.   


 

He even changed his name, now all his followers were calling him ‘the Damphair’ which freaked me out. I have no idea what the even was suppose to mean, so I just called him Uncle Aaron. In his defense the whole thing did help me, I got clean - found a girl who put up with my shit for a little while, I just never really got into the whole religion thing he was pushing. I wasn’t even a guy who cherry picked a god or two to believe in. So I just appreciated what he did for me, taking me in, giving me something to do - a purpose almost, and I tried my hardest not to judge him. It seemed like all the people that were there were messed up, like me or worse. Drug problems, gambling debts, running from the cops - no offense to you guys. It was a safe place, somewhere off the map.

 

Everything was fine until a few nights ago. Aaron, he started having these ‘church meetings’ at night, I don’t know what was going on but when I would wake up it seemed like half the compound was in a daze. They’d do what they had to do to get through the day, but trying to talk to any of them was like talking to a wall. After a few nights, things were getting worse. Everyone was like that, and now there were fights. How people who were doing so well and who didn’t even communicate were now fighting was beyond me. I did some snooping and found my uncle was giving them some kind of fucked up cocktail of drugs - I mean really  heavy shit. 

 

Basically what I’m saying is they’re becoming zombies. I have no idea what was all in the drinks he gave them every night, but he was importing stuff from Africa and Australia. He was getting shit from third world countries. When I asked him about it he got pissy, told me the only way he could change the world was with an army of believers, but believing wasn’t enough.  He said he had to help them, to not fear death or pain or punishment. They needed to be ‘pure’ I think that was the word he used. He called them ‘White Walkers’ because of the purity of their new souls - I fucking called them zombies. I’ve seen enough Romero shit to know when to get out of dodge. 

 

What ended up happening was I tried to stop him, I did. I swear, I don’t know if these people needed the drugs every night, or if it would bring them out of this weird walking coma if I stopped it or what would happen. So I tried, tried to switch the batches of the drinks one night. Everything just went wrong, really really wrong. They all got so...violent. Aaron, he told me the only thing keeping them docile was in that drink, without it they’d become monsters. They did. They tore him limb from limb and I ran. I cried and he screamed that he was their father and that ‘God will judge you all if you don’t stop this’ and they killed him and I swear I saw somebody fucking eating him. I saw it. I saw it. I saw - “ 

 

“Son, is that what happened to your finger?” Seaworth again, trying to be non judgmental while Baratheon sat there, contempt all over his face that he even had to look at me. 

 

“One of them grabbed me when I was running. I just bolted, didn’t take anything I just ran and ran and ran through the woods. But before I left when I was still trying to help my uncle somebody grabbed my hand and bit me, I didn’t even know at first. It hurt, it hurt so much, but nothing felt...missing. I didn’t even know he’d taken it off with him until I got to the woods. I had to run all night. I couldn’t stop, and when I got to the road I just hoped somebody would pick me up and you came. You have to go back and kill them, you have to stop them before they - “

 

Even Office David’s eyes turned to narrow little slits now. 

 

“Listen, son - “

 

“I am not your fucking son. Stop calling me that.”

 

“Theon, you said your name was. Well Theon, are you will to write this all down, to accept whatever part you played in whatever mess we find outside of town?”

 

“Yes. A million times yes.”

 

“Good,” he reached for a pen and paper.  Sergeant Baratheon finally cutting in.

 

“And you’re going to have to take a drug test, Mr. Greyjoy.” 

 

Well shit, I was fucked. 

 


	5. 05. Mental {Myranda / Sansa }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MyrandaxSansa...cause I heard some people were into this sort of thing. Show!verse, obviously. Listening music? Simple Girl by IAMX. Also let me know if you have any ideas for themes and /or pairings. Don't know how much writing I'll be doing in the near future - but maybe some pairings will spike my creativity? I'm already working on a Damon / Reek one and a bit of dabbling into Throbb. So let me know what you want to see.

 

Her skin crawled when she heard footsteps approaching. In the Godswood the grass was normally lush and soft - it could silence anyone's steps, but with winter coming the leaves were thick on the ground. Footsteps were often loud and intruding if the owner of the feet wasn’t being careful. At first she thought it was her husband. Usually she was safe for a few hours during the day, to sit in the Godswood, her Father’s and watch the still ponds of water. She didn’t pray anymore, didn’t even think she remembered how to. She just enjoyed sitting by herself.

 

She braced herself, pulling up an invisible wall to surround her. When the footsteps softened she knew it wasn’t _him_ but it was somebody. She felt almost betrayed by the trees around her, how dare they give away her hiding place. No, she thought. She was being silly, there were still plenty of Northerners who kept the old gods. She kept head down, feeling ashamed and proud, the purpling taking over the greater portion of the right side of her face. Her right eye thudded dully. Battle scars from a night with her monster.

 

When she felt somebody sit beside her she nearly jumped out of her skin. Few came this close. She was a Bolton now.  Nobody dared look at her too long in fear of what might happen.

 

“My lady; I know about that, you can stop looking away from me.” A soft feminine voice drifted her way. She tilted her face up, examined the person beside her. Dark curls of rust colored hair and pale grey eyes. Skin the color of milk with a rash of red across her face. Nobody would say she was beautiful, but nobody could say she was a boring sight. Her nose made her face unremarkable. Sansa knew she had seen this face before, this was the girl who had taken her to see - her mind blanked. She kept her lips tightly pressed together. Few could say much to her without repercussions. She had no desire to worsen anyone’s punishment regardless of what the girl had done.

 

“We’ve talked before you know. You can talk to me, he knows I’m here if that’s what you’re worried about.” She tried to not to inhale too sharply. “I used to be his - “ Her words stopped as she tried to think of a word. Her eyes drifted off, suddenly she looked unhappy. She looked more beautiful when her lips were turned down. “Nevermind what I was. He just knows.”

 

“Then why are you here?” She broke her silence, wondering what was the purpose of this visit. She recalled the last time they crossed paths and felt cold surround her.

 

“I want - “ She paused again, thinking for a moment, “to help you.” Sansa’s eyes barely widened, she would find no help here, she was sure of it. Not with some woman Ramsay thought was safe enough to talk to her. Sansa tilted her head back towards the waters, hoping it would make this strange woman leave. Ignoring her in the hopes she would take the hint. There was no such luck.

 

“He thinks I’m going to help you learn how to please him.” She spat this out like a curse, her lips pressed tightly together. “Well he’s wrong, I want to help you. Sansa, the North Remembers.”  Those words again. Goosebumps across her bare arms, the lightest hair standing on end. She remembered others promises to help and shook her head from side to side. No. She would not be that naive again.

 

“Please, let me help you. Please, my father - he’s one of the Bolton’s men; but me I always followed the king in the North. Robb. He was a good man.”  Hardness shone in her eyes, Sansa felt pity, long pale fingers clutched at her own, resting on her knees. She didn’t pull away. She allowed her own fingers to wrap around those needy hands.

 

“How?” She breathed, almost a sigh. If she played along this girl might go away. She felt the fingers touching the fading yellow fingerprints around her wrists. To stop fighting would be far too easy, she didn’t have it in her to give up yet. When she let her face turn towards the last rays of light she felt those fingers on her face. So soft and gentle against the tender spots, she barely flinched. It was almost...nice.

 

“He hurts you terribly doesn’t he? Some say he had a girl who used to not mind so much…” She trailed off, her eyes unfocused somewhere past the trees. “I don’t know what happened to her.” She finished finally, her eyes focusing back on the bruise, the swollen lid over her eye throbbing into attention. Darkness hovered near the edge of her vision.

 

“Wouldn’t it be so much nicer if he was just gentle, for once.” She sighed, her head hung as she moved closer, as if she had known. Sansa felt suddenly aware of everything, the wind blowing stray strands of her hair into her face, the frozen surface of the rock beneath her, the soft lapping of water. The girl moved closer, her face just inches from Sansa’s own. “So nice.” She breathed, her breath smelling of mint.  Her fingers brushed away the hair, sticking to Sansa’s wet cheeks. She didn’t know when the tears had come, but they stole softly down her face.

 

When lips met, it was so unexpected, so different from anything else. This girl's lips were chapped and dry but they were like feathers against her own. Warmth breathing into her, soft slight hands on her own. When they pulled away Sansa’s breath hitched, color flooded her face. No kiss had ever been sweeter.

 

“I  - I don’t think - “ She couldn’t think, there was no thinking.

 

“Please. my Queen, let me do this one thing for you. Please, let me help.” And then this girl with her shock of unruly rusty hair was on her knees before her, between her legs, throwing her skirts up around her waist. Wind blew at her bare legs and she shivered, ashamed and cold - heat fluttered through her body. When her small clothes were finally tossed aside and lips met her wetness she shuddered.She should be fighting, should be telling her no, but when her lips opened she found no sound could come out..

 

She felt alone, utterly and completely. There was something almost good about the lips between her legs, so unlike anything she’d ever felt. The slightest kisses were planted up and down her thighs. Fingers ghosted up and down her calves. She clutched her chest and moaned - praying once again, hoping nobody would hear her.

 

She came uneventfully. Her legs closing around the thick mess of red between them, shutting the girl in as she heaved once and then stopped breathing for a moment. All feeling forgotten but that delicious one sending tendrils of warm smoke into her belly.

 

When the girl surfaced for air her smile was genuine. She had poor teeth, large looking canines poking between her glistening lips. Sansa didn’t have any kind of words to put together.

 

“That was...we shouldn’t.” She managed, air still struggling into her lungs. The smile disappeared.

 

“He calls you beautiful you know, he really does.”  Sansa was about to ask for clarification when -

 

“Well, well - what do we have here?” She screamed, couldn’t help herself. The sound was out of her mouth before she could stop it, before she could process it. She’d never understood how things had gotten so far, and now to see Ramsay standing there - she felt fresh tears budding between her eyelashes.

 

Then the girl, the girl who she just couldn’t remember her name - was standing, Sansa clutching at her gown, pressing fabric down desperately almost crazed.

 

“It’s her fault mi’lord. She’s the one who told me if I didn’t do as she told me she’d come and tell you I’d been stealing from your kitchen. I aint never touched nothing  - “ Here she burst into peals of laughter enough to double her over. Even Ramsay’s face was split into the grin, the one that looked far too large for his face. His teeth gleamed. She went to his side where he took her by the shoulders and set his lips to hers. He licked his lips and glared at his wife; trembling still on her rock, holding her skirts in both hands.

 

The air stilled.

 

“Well, Myranda I see you’ve made quite the impression on my lady. Miss Sansa has already found you more appealing than me, but it’s no matter. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you coming up to visit once in a while.” All smiles and grins. Sansa felt sick, her stomach roaring.

 

“I wouldn’t mind at all."

 


	6. 06. Skeleton / Bones {Theon & Ramsay}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay plays a game and Theon gets reward. But does he ever really get a reward?   
> This is the first thing I wrote for this 30 theme challenge, but I've been reading and rereading it because I'm not 100% happy with it.  
>  _Your foot bone connected to your ankle bone_

 

The thin white object sailed through the air as gracelessly as Theon had fallen to his knees to play this new game. He had known that much was expected of him at least. He started towards it on hands and busted knees. Every time his kneecaps hit the stone he struggled not to scream. It felt like years before he made it to the corner. 

 

Whatever Ramsay had thrown was laying shrouded in shadows. Theon’s hand barely managed to hover over the object before he heard another sharp yell.

 

“No. Like a dog. Bring it back to me.” Theon lowered his head, his sore jaws closing around the object.  A bone, like a dog. Realization hit him. Then his stomach gurgled. The roiling inside him inspired another idea. Maybe he could gnaw on it later and save some marrow from it. He could imagine the taste, if only he could find a way to crack it in half. His mouth watered.

 

It was a large bone as he struggled to return it to his master. His aching mouth quivered as he tried to keep it firmly between his lips without subjecting his teeth to much more abuse. Later if he was lucky and had a few moments to himself it might  feel good to chew on something that wasn’t his own tongue. Maybe it would help the rawness he felt in the empty spaces of his mouth where teeth once were. More importantly the taste. He had seen the dogs in the kennels. Saw them suck and chew and devour everything inside until all that was left was a hard white shell. 

 

They played that game a bit more. Ramsay would toss the bone and Theon would scamper after it hoping they would be done soon. His lips smashing down on it and bringing it back, feeling it getting heavier and heavier in his mouth. Finally Ramsay did tire. Theon wondered if this was from a cow, maybe a horse. A good strong leg bone. Maybe from a deer. He wondered if deer marrow tasted different from horse and cow. He decided he didn’t care as his stomach noisily complained. His stomach would take whatever it could get, be it deer, horse, cow, or mammoth. Maybe it would taste gamey. 

 

“I have a few letters to write, you can keep that if you want.” Ramsay got up from the bed - all fun and games sucked out of him. Theon prefered it that way. He brought the bone between his teeth and rested under his master’s feet. Shame filled him but only for the briefest moment. He was so hungry he would do anything for something to fill the pit inside him. Ramsay’s hand scratched his scalp mindlessly as Theon banged the bone against the stone floor. A huge healthy buck entered his mind, one with good strong legs and lots of delicious flavor tucked inside his bones. 

 

When his maimed hands finally managed to smash the bone hard enough against the floor he licked and sucked at the jagged edge. His lips bled from the rough shrapnel poking into him, but he didn’t care. He devoured every bit he could get into his mouth. When he was just about done, struggling to get every last inch of the rich buttery taste down his throat he felt eyes on him. 

 

“Enjoying yourself?” Theon couldn’t do much but nod. To lie would be a bigger problem than to simply admit guilt in enjoying anything. His stomach wasn’t quite so loud now. He felt the terrible error he had made as he watched ice colored eyes stare at him. The most disturbing part was Ramsay was actually smiling. His lips huge and swollen looking and stretched into a hideous shape that didn’t seem to fit his face. 

 

“Do you wonder what kind of animal that came from? So rich I’m sure. One of the best things my father’s ever taken down.  I do hope you enjoy it.  I chose you of all people to enjoy one of the best parts of the beast.” 

 

Theon could only lower his eyes back to the empty, cracked white bone. “Yes, m’lord, thank you.”

 

“Well in case you were wondering,” Ramsay started to write his letters again and Theon thought for just one moment he was safe. “it was some huge northern beast. A massive wolf.” The marrow solidified into a knot in Theon’s stomach. He felt he was going to be sick. His fingers found his lips still slick with his own saliva. 

 

“Some big, grey wolf named Robb.  It was a hard long fight I’m told. He had to hunt for almost a year. My father took him down all the same. Glad you enjoyed it.” 

 

 

 


	7. 07. Parasite {Sansa/Ramsay}

“Wait!” Her voice was a sudden punch to the stomach, he stopped if for no other reason than surprise. He waited for one moment his eyebrows knotted together in the center of his forehead. Sansa had sobbed and begged, but she had never had this much authority in her voice, she had never stood up to him like this. Her tall willowy thin body didn’t retreat when he approached.

 

“I...I want to talk to you about something.” So many words, so much talking. When he came to her room late at night the only words that passed between them were filthy ones from his mouth and pleading ones from hers.  

 

“Yes?” His curiosity was peaked, his arousal dimmed for a moment,  long enough for her to sit on her mattress, her eyes still wary.

 

“You hate your father, don’t you?”

 

**X**

 

Reek knew something was strange, knew in the pits of his heart something was different. He had been the first person to spot the change. He wasn’t the last though. He picked up on the subtle differences when it was all he had.

 

He had been in charge of bathing Sansa. Ramsay decided it would be just another punishment, besides he didn’t trust anyone half as much as his loyal pet - who had come to him time and time again to tell of her treasons and plots. So he had been the one to clean her nightly. At first he accepted her bruises, the bite-marks, the dried blood on her thighs. He had washed her all the same and poured warm water over her head and ran his maimed hands through her silky red hair and somewhere he wished she was his wife.

 

Somewhere he wished he was still a man named Theon, but he put all those fantasies aside. It had been a few weeks since they had married. He knew she would be swelling up soon, there was no way she would fail in bearing him children soon enough. Reek was just a servant, just a dog. He shouldn't be thinking of his Master's wife like that.  He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

 

Then he noticed things - changing. Her bruises faded. There were none to replace them once they vanished. Her skin was smooth and porcelain again. Ivory with her autumn hair setting the colors off. No more blood on her legs, none in her bed, none anywhere. The darkness under her eyes vanished.

 

Something had changed.

 

Then the obvious signs everyone saw. The laughing, the smiling. She would steal secret looks at her husband at the dinner table and she looked happy. He too would look at her and a smile would cross his lips and his eyes would lighten. They walked hand in hand through Winterfell. They would go out riding. Her hands would find his knee and his hands would stroke her shoulders and they seemed happy.

 

And Reek knew something was amiss.

 

**X**

 

‘I have a plan. You hate him. I hate him. We would both benefit from his…” She couldn’t say the words in her mind. He understood all the same. He approached her and she shrunk away, his hands posed and ready it seemed, to strike. Instead he clutched her hands in his.

 

“You’re right.”

 

**X**

 

Roose Bolton’s fiftieth name day was approaching rapidly. He did not want fanfare. He wanted nothing more than for the day to pass in silence with no one being wiser. His wife had other plans.

 

“A feast?” He said, revolted at the thought. “Do you understand that is our storage for winter? Winter is nearly on us and what will we do when we eat through everything? Starve until the summer?”

 

“Please.” She whined, her voice nasally. “It won’t be large, just a few courses and some drinks, some dancing. It’ll get spirits lifted.” Roose had to agree, with the darkness coming earlier and earlier each day he knew it would only be a short time until his men felt bleakness themselves.

 

“Fine, but only three courses. No more.” Walda nearly squealed with joy.

 

**X**

 

“So tell me your plan.”

 

“Do you know Walda is planning a feast? For your father?”

 

“No, I didn’t know. Nobody informs me of - “ She spoke out of turn knowing it might mean punishment but she had to push through before she lost her courage.

 

“Soon, it’ll be small. But listen, please.”

 

**X**

 

The day of the feast everything was going well enough. Roose had to admit, it did lighten spirits. He didn’t much care if people were happy in the camps, but he didn’t want deserters. He was sure he would find them if they left, but he knew he would need every man he had without flaying any of them.

 

The first course was humble enough, a roasted squab, served with honey and mixed greens. Everyone loved it, Roose ate small portions and sipped at a flagon of ale. He watched the singing and cheering, the roars and shouts to celebrate him. All he had done was been born. No reason to celebrate he had thought. Let them cheer. It’ll be done in the morning.

 

The second course was stew, tender calf meat and vegetables. Mixed and soften in the thick brown juices.

 

The final course was a soft white cake, lemon curd topped the fluffy layers. Sansa devoured three pieces, her fingers sticky with sugar when she took her husband’s hands and they danced to the surprise of everyone.

 

**X**

 

As the days ticked by, Roose felt ill. Not ill suddenly but different and as strange as his bastard had been acting. He felt hungry all the time. his stomach a roiling pit of darkness that seemed to have no end. He would eat and eat, three loaves of bread, two whole chickens cooked in butter, a pot of mashed carrots - nothing sated him. The more he ate, the smaller he became. Smaller and smaller until he felt weak enough to stand. All he seemed to do was sit in his chambers, allowing serving girls to bring him trays of food that he seemed to swallow without tasting.

 

When he died it came as a surprise to all, except his bastard and his wife  - now growing large with his child. Word spread that Sansa was some kind of witch, had learned spells and dark magic in the south and had cast a spell. The bigger she had gotten the weaker Roose became until Roose was no more. He had weighed less than the trays the serving woman had been bringing up at the end, he was easily carried down the stairs by two men - slight of build themselves. They had no place to bury him inside Winterfell, his grieving widow mourning her husband’s passing asked for him to be placed back in the Dreadfort. Then she would return home.

 

Ramsay would be named Warden of the North. Sansa would be Wardeness, holding a child inside her and a secret safe enough to keep her unblemished. She thought of Cersei - something she didn’t do often, but her words rang in her ears. _You may never love the king, but you will love his children._ It was true she supposed, not just to Joffrey, but to Ramsay as well. She may never love her husband, but she would love her child. Half wolf, a true child of the North, even with the bastard’s blood in them. Touching the small bump below her breasts she thought that wolves could bear fangs and kill. If it was so simple, it could easily be done again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poison may be a woman's weapon - but who uses tapeworms? Also hello inspiration / a day off! Just going to update almost every fic I guess, lol.


	8. 08. Torture Devices {Throbb}

 

With a belt wrapped loosely around his neck Theon was finally asleep. Robb sat on the footrest off to the corner, watching, holding his breath. The worst was his face, he looked happy for once. For the first time in months, actually it had been closer to a year - he looked content. A smile played on his lips. Robb felt sick in the pit of his stomach and couldn’t get comfortable. Laying next to him was unfathomable right now. Sitting in bed at all made his skin itch. Pacing didn't help either.

 

They’d been together for a while when they were just kids. They had been best friends that turned into something a little more. High school was just another diversion for them and somehow in between the social circles that never overlapped they would find the time for stray hands and dry lips in dark corners. Then Theon had to find himself. He was graduating two years ahead of Robb. Two whole years - as if it made any difference.

 

Once he was free from high school he was free from Robb as well, _I just need to find myself ._ Robb thought of those words a lot. Tortured himself with them at night, thinking what is there to find? He would list off the things about Theon he knew, his favorite color (sea foam green), his favorite food (cheesy potato wedges with bacon - never forget the bacon), where he had his tattoo done (a cheap B  movie looking octopus he always insisted was a krakken. He had it done in his sister’s boyfriend’s basement. He was drunk and it was his sixteenth birthday and Robb could still remember how he howled when the first needle went into his skin). Robb knew Theon could be a top or a bottom, always spit  - never swallowed, would only drink light beers in public, and used coconut shampoo with a special detangler brush. 

 

 _I have to find myself._ He said, and so he left. Robb let him leave(as if he had any say). He got into his car and drove as far away as he could muster and whatever happened then Robb would never fully understand. There was some kind of gloriously huge mess. The kind only Theon could get himself into. There was some kind of legal problems because (and Theon would never ever really talk about this) he had been held captive somewhere. If he was hitching or couch hopping it didn’t matter but he had ended up with some kind of creep who wanted Theon to stay a lot more than Theon wanted to stay. And he had stayed...for years.

 

Robb went to college and got a degree his father would have been proud of. He met a few girls, but couldn’t really settle down. His half brother joined the Army and was shipped off to some ungodly outpost at the edge of the world where it seemed his would freeze his balls off forever and a day. His sister married a wife beating psychopath. He didn't have much time to think about Theon, with the seashells in his bedroom and stack of comic books under his bed. Then Theon was back.

 

Just like that. When Robb heard his heart misfired. It was like the years were gone, yet overlapped all at once. He had been gone for so long and who was he to just come back out of the blue? His first thought was to storm over to him and point in his face and ask if he had _found himself yet?_ When he actually saw Theon his plans fell to shit and all he wanted to know was _what the fuck happened to you?_

 

He was skin and bones. His eyes popped out of his face. He jumped whenever there was any loud noise. He was almost always in tears or nearly there. His hair was white, flecked with grey. Robb thought it was dye, but after living with him for months found it grew that way - discolored and frail despite every attempt to make it healthy. He smelled musty, like something you could pick up in an antique store, even when he used the coconut shampoo he had loved so long ago.The detangler brush pulled out clumps of hair instead of brushing it, so he let it wild around his shoulders.

 

What could he do? Robb took him in. (He has nowhere to go.) He tried again. Things were so much more different. Over breakfast (Theon would always have something ready in the morning. It seemed like he barely slept at all) Robb would try to ask things. He understood there was some great and mysterious _he ,_ who had done all this. It took two months before Robb could actually touch the man who lived with him. It was almost hard to call him Theon anymore. Theon smiled so easily. Theon laughed loudly. Theon would take charge of situations needing a leader. Theon was well used muscles under tan skin. Theon was sea foam green. Theon was trips to the beach and salty air and sand in your socks for weeks.

 

This wasn’t Theon. This was pale, with jittering teeth and nervous eyes that darted around the room. This was somebody who never smiled, never laughed. Someone who would step back, fade much more happily into the darkness than accept power in any form. This was bones under his skin with  muscles gone slack. Cramps and aches and popping joints when he moved.  This was white and grey and trips to the lawyer about some great case Robb wasn’t allowed to hear about (but would read up on the internet as soon as he learned any information.)

 

Robb thought he would tear him apart the first time they were in bed again. He felt like he was touching plastic wrap stretched too thin, like his fingers would poke holes in the surface. He saw all the scars, the burns, the marks - he said nothing until the next day and Theon dodged the questions and disappeared for the rest of the day. He thought any force would split the man in two. Theon just watched with those watery dead looking eyes and made no indication anything hurt.

 

Later Theon would ask for more. _Can you just do that a little harder_ . So Robb did, just a little harder. _Can you just bite me there please._ Where Robb’s lips laid soft feather light kisses he bit instead, his teeth gently sinking into old imprints of canines and he felt disgusted. He had to stop and run to the bathroom, feeling like he just bit into something old and mushy and expired. Theon didn’t seem to care or notice. The next time it was a different request. _Can you put your hands right here ._ Somehow Robb’s hands ended up wrapped around that thin translucent neck. He gave a light squeeze, barely any pressure and there it was, a glorious moan -  so loud and so real that it reminded him of Theon. Theon would never like this. Not the one who had yelped like a girl at the touch of a needle. Theon who was terrified of daddy long legs (especially the reds ones. He’d roar about how they were poisonous and Robb would laugh as he let them out of the house and say he didn’t think daddy long legs even had teeth) and once cried when he had a splinter lodged in his right pinky toe.

 

This man didn’t even have a right pinky toe. But the noise was real so Robb did it again. And Theon squirmed the way he used to. Robb slipped inside (had it always been so easy?) and tightened his fingers around Theon’s neck again. He felt something strange inside him, something that felt like anger. Something inside him that roared like a wolf and said _Is this who you were looking for? Are you happy you found him? I just want Theon back. Give him back._ And before he knew it there was a belt wrapped around Theon’s neck, tugging tighter - tighter. His moans turned into harsh cries for air but his hands were pulling Robb in - not pushing him away, not fighting.

 

 _I could kill him. I could fucking kill him and he wouldn’t even fight me._ His face turned purple and he let go of the belt, the leather slipping through his fingers, but it had already been enough and Theon came - crying out like he used to while his fingers pressed Robb deeper inside. Robb was terrified about the thoughts the were in his mind in that moment. He wasn't a violent guy (couldn't even kill those bugs Theon hated so much, would just let them out through the front door or a cracked window). Where did those thoughts come from, and could they happen again. He felt fragile himself, was there something so dark inside him. There would be a bruise there, on his neck, thick and wide and it would haunt Robb until it went away. Even after it faded weeks later he would still see it there, ghosting on the milky white in shades of purple and blue and yellow.

  



	9. 09. Burn {Damon/Theon}

 

The blisters oozed clear sick slime. His hands were pockmarked with the clear sacks popping up on his palms and fingers. Where the rounded bloated circles didn’t live the skin was the color of a blazing sunrise. Ramsay wasn’t interested, so it fell on somebody else to do the tasks Reek couldn’t do himself. 

 

Damon had come to his aid out of some kind of helpless kinship. Damon; the baby of the group, the one who did all the dirty work. So when Ramsay had asked  _ somebody _ to come over nightly and do _this_ Damon was the one who it fell to. Violence meant nothing to him, he felt nothing when he heard Reek screaming in pain if he arrived early or unexpectedly and burst into a scene he hadn’t been meant to see - but in his mind nothing was better than pleasure. 

 

The ointment felt cool in his palm as he rubbed his hands together to warm it slightly. The cloying scent of roses hung onto his hands long after he washed the lotion off, but he wouldn’t concede to putting on gloves. It was so distant, the rubber covering his digits while he worked. He would go to bed every night smelling flowers even when he tried to mask it. It soured his appetite and plugged his nose but he just could not depersonalize himself as much as he should have.There was just something in him that needed to feel the damaged skin against his own. Something in him that wanted to rub more than what he could see, push and pull the flesh of his arms, massage bony shoulders  - he stopped before his mind ventured too far off the trail.   


 

Reek held still every night, he didn’t speak a word or cry out. He never explained what happened, never even opened his mouth. His dull eyes would just look down at his feet as he sat on the chair opposite Damon and held out his injured palms in an offering of peace. Everything about him screamed  _ please don’t hurt me anymore . _ So Damon tried not to. He would rub the cream onto the blisters as gently as he could. When they popped his nose turned up, his mouth would crinkle into a frown and Reek would just sit there and watch.  If his breathing changed at all Damon didn’t notice as pus and blood flowed onto his own bare hands. When all was said and done he would wrap the wounded parts of the man before him up in gauze and let himself out. Whatever happened was none of his business. 

 

Tonight Ramsay was sleeping, his snores audible enough to make Damon suspicious. He hadn’t really thought he felt any great longing to his friend’s strange housemate, but Ramsay was always suspicious. Knowing eyes were always on him, always watching for a signal of something more Damon felt something twitch inside his guts. Damon knew it went far deeper than just two people sharing a flat, it was obvious to anyone with two eyes, but nobody spoke about it like that. They didn’t even know his real name. He had just shown up one day and they all called him Reek at Ramsay’s insistence and he had just hung his head and accepted it. Track marks lined both arms when his sleeves were rolled up. The fainted edge of a tattoo was visible under his collared shirts. Damon couldn’t help but feel the slightest twitch of pity somewhere inside his mind. 

 

Maybe he liked what he and Ramsay did. Maybe he didn’t get a say in it. Either way in time Damon’s nothingness bloomed into the dullest spark of reverence for the quietness that swallowed Reek. He never heard the thin broken looking man speak; unless he had showed up on those moments he had heard what he wasn’t suppose to hear. Damon would arrive at 6:45 instead of 7:00 and he'd heard screams and moans and begging. A raspy broken voice coming from a raspy broken man.   


 

In the darkened kitchen of the pitch black apartment Damon tried again.

 

“You can talk to me you know. I won’t bite.” Shadows played on the walls as Reek just watched their feet. His hands jerked slightly, involuntarily. There was always a tremor to his movements. “How. How did he hurt you? I won’t tell him. I won’t tell anybody.” For one second he saw lips move. It was if he had reached somewhere and had found something. Then Reek’s lips snapped shut. He chewed his bottom lip but raised his eyes. Understanding flashed between the two. 

 

“Okay.” Damon told the pain filled eyes. The snoring got louder, stopped, resumed. A clock ticked in the next room. A TV in an apartment below them hummed. He lowered his face to the wounded but not yet medicated hand he held in his own. He smelled roses on his own palms. His lips brushed against the raw red skin. He felt the give of the pockets of moist skin, stretched with fluids. He kissed the hand between his own. His lips traced the fingers, felt out broken bones and faded bruises. His mouth brushed against every inch of skin between his own hands. The snoring in the next room got louder, stopped and resumed. A clock ticked on. The TV hummed. Nothing changed, nothing would change and when he raised his face from the exposed tender flesh, Reek’s eyes were looking at the floor. He said nothing as Damon gently rubbed the wounded hands between his own, wrapped the palms up and let himself out. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {singing like a mad woman} I'm going on vacation. I'm going on vacation. I'm going on vacation.


	10. 10. Sickness {Theon/Ramsay}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Theon's sick. Ramsay's immune system is down. {some writing therapy}

\--

 

Theon’s looking at the knife again, his eyes turn a different color all pale and misty when he’s staring at it. Ramsay shoves it off the bedside table and sighs when he hears it hit the carpet. He hopes it tumbles under the bed but he’s never that lucky.

  


\--

 

He’s kissing his collarbones, wide bony islands in the sea of his chest - his torso  tasting just like a salt lick. He sucks the space behind an earlobe. His teeth graze soft skin.

 

“Anywhere you can kiss you can bite.”

 

Ramsay smiles - predatorily, bitterly, dangerously. He takes a bite.

  


\--

 

They are sitting on the beach, watching the pink light fade to a light grey - then dark blue. Fingers lock tight, sand sneaks up on them and blows into their hair when the wind kicks up.

 

“I love you.”

 

“Why do you always need to ruin everything?”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re ruining it, just  - be quiet.”

 

“But I - “

 

“Shhh”

 

Ramsay bites his lip, Theon’s face turns towards the dunes and they don’t speak for a very long time.

  


\--

  


The crack of hips meeting mimics the headboard against plaster.  There are long scratches down his back, five on each side  - even the smallest little gouge from a pinky nail that Ramsay tends to bite while nervous. The hangnail catches against the thin skin. He never understands how it got to this. But Theon’s all pink, his face is flushed and his breathing is all hitched and his words are scrambled. Ramsay’s hard because Theon’s hard and when Theon’s hard it’s hard to say no.

 

“Please - please - please” a prayer on repeat slipping through chapped lips.

 

“Please what?”

 

Theon’s eyes are fixed on the bedside table, a pocketknife. No, Ramsay thinks, but he leans over the body under him and touches the handle. It’s ice cold and feels like fire. He wants to pull his hand away but he can feel muscles under him tense.

 

He struggles to open it with only one hand, the click of the blade locking into place seems to send Theon into a fit. Ramsay’s too terrified to touch him with it  - like some kind of small pox blanket. When he gently brings it down onto a premade line Theon’s throat produce the strangest most wonderful sounds. Ramsay can’t help himself though.

 

“I love you.”

 

Theon tears away, sitting upright, shaking his head and his eyes looking wild.  He screams loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Ramsay's still holding the knife, his cock still hard and wet from lube.

 

“You fucking ruin everything.”

  


\--

  


Theon’s eyes are all lit up like lights on a Christmas tree.

 

“Can we try something?” And Ramsay’s trying to ignore him, he’s trying to turn through a few pages in a book but he can’t get past the first two sentences. So he pretends he’s reading and lets Theon go on, rocking on the back of his feet in front of him. Waiting.

 

“Please?”

 

Ramsay finally eyes him. He’s thinking there will be problems. He’s right when he sees a pink rope, white flecked throughout.

 

“What do you want me to do with that?”

 

“This.” Theon’s on his knees now, right in the center of the living room, with his  bare ass in the air and a rope around his neck in a lazy noose. “Pull.”

Ramsay doesn’t need to be asked twice.

 

 

\--

 

 

Does everyone do this to you? He wants to ask, but he stays silent. Later - after when Theon's standing in front of the bedroom mirror admiring the bruises on his hips from where Ramsay grabbed him just hard enough to leave a mark he decides to ask. Theon's fingering the rope burn on his neck from the morning before when he hears the question.

 

"Do you make all your boyfriends do this?"

 

Theon crawls back into bed, slipping under the covers and nestling into the open arms waiting for him - pleased with himself and his new injuries.

 

"Nope, just you."

 

\--

  


Things slip and slide into the darkness. Theon’s sickness seeps out and pools in their bed at night. Every day Ramsay feels like the ground beneath him is crumbling. He feels jaundiced. He needs some kind of soul cleaning dialysis but instead all he gets is needy fingers palming his cock through his jeans.

  


\--

  


The sun isn’t even up when he feels lips sucking at his navel, trailing downward. Theon’s there leaving a messy trail down his body. He looks up and smiles - all sideways and crooked in the glow of the television in the predawn hours.

 

“Morning.”

 

“Why do you do that?” As Theon slurps at the outside of Ramsay’s tenting sweatpants.

 

“Because I like how it tastes.”

 

“No, smile like that. All skewed.” Theon smiles again as he tugs down the waistband. Ramsay lifts his ass and lets his pants slide down to his kneecaps.

 

“My dad broke my jaw when I was nine. It hurts on the left side. I don’t even chew over there.” So casual.

 

Ramsay’s speechless, he thinks of all the times Theon made him hit him, slap him right across the face. He tries to think if he ever did that much damage. His stomach is a frigid mess until Theon’s moist mouth makes him feel warm again.

 

\--

  


“Do you love me?”

 

“You know I do.”

 

“Then you can just fucking hurt me already?”

 

\--

 

This time he doesn’t even have to ask, he’s just slicing away  - bringing the blade down against an exposed back with one hand - the other clutching two pieces of pink rope between his fingers. His right hand is red with blood, the color staining the sheets more often than not these days. His left hand is turning white from the force he's using. He’s pulling tight on the rope until he hears those harsh little whistles that means, for real, _I can’t breath_. 

 

And Ramsay thinks, _I can kill you - you little fucker. You’d like that too much._


	11. 11. Wrong {Theon / Domeric }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU; Tequilla shots make Theon's clothes fall off and do things he shouldn't. Bloodplay. Cheating(?) SLIGHT Throbb.

    I am drunk. He pins me to the bed and we let out sickeningly loud squeals of laughter. He's drunk too. He has icy eyes but the  _wrong_ ice.   My pants are lying somewhere between the bed and the door - crumbled, messy. I don’t recall the trip upstairs.  I do recall blue fuzzy handcuffs most of the night, joining us together in this wonderful hot mess. I'm red all over from the heat of him near me. The _wrong_ heat. Other friends leave and we stay locked together until somehow we tumble into bed - me minus my clothing. I'm not good in bed with jeans on. I lay against him for a moment, just there. It’s nice. I’ve had a long day knowing so much more is coming and I brace myself with shots of tequila and vodka until this seems like a good idea.

    This wasn’t the plan although it seems like it may have been. It’s all innocent enough until he feels my legs and recalls the gouges there. Fresh healing lines the length of my thighs. He rubs the backs of his legs against my scabs and I hiss - not in displeasure. He moves again.

_You’re so fucking sick._ But here come the cuffs again and we laugh. That’s when Robb comes into the room and gawks.

    _You all okay?_

 _Yeah sure we are_ \- and I tug the covers around my legs, not to hide my underwear, my ass, my skin - just to cover my wounds. If he sees them I'm fucked.  He'll tell somebody and that somebody will tell more somebodies. His hands feel the scabs under the thin sheets. I turn a terrible shade of pink, he thinks awful things are going on under the blankets and he’s not wrong. He tries to demonstrate the proper use of his fuzzy cuffs. Almost jokingly. To play along with the two drunk fucks in bed - who should never be in bed together.

 _Don’t do it to me_ \- he protests so I stick my wrists out. Robb slaps them on with the care of somebody so terribly vanilla that he might need to consider adding a bit of marshmallow fluff for taste.

    Dom looks at me and giggles.

 _Wrong_ \- he says. He rips off the fuzzy part, then slaps them on my wrists hard enough to have an angry red mark for a few days on me. They’re tight. So fucking tight and I bite my lip. I make a drunken mental note to buy some for myself.  He slams me against the bed, my head hitting the wall and instead of pain it’s pleasure and he giggles and gets on top of me and Robb leaves - leaving the door open. My glasses tumble off my face and into the space between the bed and the wall. We can hear everyone else downstairs - so I get up to shut it, slamming my toes into everything they meet. 

    _Those were from sex?_ He asks, then changes it into a statement because he already knows the answer. I nod, he knows his own brother's tastes better than I do it seems.  _Lucky._ He says. I can hear them playing _Spooky_ downstairs mashed with the sounds of bottles clinking together and Fifa 15. He tastes like cherry stems and sour apples. His brother always tastes like copper and ice. He fingers the cuts. He crawls off the bed towards my pants - still laying somewhere near the door. He's more graceful on his knees than I am on my feet. I eye the fuzzy blue material from the handcuffs and imagine it's a massive caterpillar. I start laughing and soon enough tears are rolling down my face. Then he breaks the trance and flicks open my knife.

     It’s instinct already. Pavlovian response. When I hear the click of metal locking into place I moan, it doesn’t quite matter who does that action. I’m laying on my stomach, playing with the carpet under the bed, dangling off and pretending the mere noise isn’t making me hard when he  - a friend, my boyfriend's own brother slides the knife along the cusp of my ass. _You are so fucking sick - it's delicious._   No blood yet and the sound I make simply doesn’t belong to a rational human and somehow he understands.

    _We should do something._ We both agree and moments later I’m on my knees in front him, sucking gently at the flowing wound on his inner thigh. He's sighing softly with his fingers tangled in my hair. My lips plant the softest kisses around the blood stains. My fingers are busy tracing a deep gash on his upper arm, so deep I can feel the muscle twitching with every motion. He did that one last week. It's still tender. I lap like a dog at his copper taste and wonder if this is even real. Moments later I have my own etching, knee to ankle and a bit deeper. Lust and sorrow and desperation fueling my drunken carving.

    He sucks blood off his fingertips. Off the knife. Off my skin.

    We both agree.

_Sick. Sick. Sick._ Until it beats like a drum in our heads. We're both hard. This isn't the foreplay. This is the sex. When we hear footsteps on the stairs we stop, almost sober. Salt and flesh and the taste of each other on our tongues.

   _Sick. Sick. Sick._

    Nobody comes in. We go back downstairs though, steadier than earlier. We laugh and joke and when the other boys slap us on the back for fucking we accept it. They’re almost right. It was just a bit more than penetration for us. Should we do it again? We ask, wiggling our eyebrows. They cheer us on and we make a promise - next time maybe.

    Later that night, before a goodnight kiss, a thumb wiping away red from my lips before **he** kisses me.  **He** knows. It's impossible to hide.

    _What did you do up there?_ All wonders and curious. _I don’t mind, I just want to know._

    _You wouldn’t understand._ I know I sure as hell still don’t.


	12. 12. Treason {Walda & Sansa}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendship develops - a traitor is hung. The North is peaceful for once.

Walda wasn’t what anybody would call courageous. She did what she could. The things she was commanded to do by the dominating men in her life. Her father had sold her off to the Boltons., like a fat cow to slaughter. She was shipped North with some furs and a promise that she would have many healthy children. Her husband was quiet. He was well mannered. He would do his duty at night, but he was never rough or unkind. She could never say he mistreated her - not by his own hand or his words. He made sure she was comfortable. He would give her what she desired, if it was within his means. She rarely did want things. 

 

Her appetite suffered for the first time since her birth. In the North all the food tasted bland. The color seemed to fade from the world around her. Grey and white  - Stark colors in a Stark land. She was a stranger.  There was only one color in the world. Ramsay was blood red - and he stayed away from her. She was out of bounds. For that she was thankful, she’d seen him drive a poor boy bloody and naked through the narrow streets of Winterfell. When she asked Roose why it had happened he’d had no answer. He simply said his bastard blood was prone to violence. He frightened her terribly, but he never touched her either. When they were all forced to dine together he would shoot her terrible looks, sly smiles. He was like a bee’s nest. There was plenty of sweet honey to tempt you - but if you ventured too close you’d be stung to death with a cloying scent of sweetness in your nose. 

 

All this was not so bad. Stay away from the bastard. Keep to yourself to not provoke the already disgruntled people around her. She could follow those rules and live with them, if only she wasn't so alone. She truly missed her sisters. She had so many at the Twins, older and younger. She had half sisters and nieces. Not all of them were kind to her, but enough were that she had friends among the many women that lived in her home. Now they were all still at the Twins, and she was in the North, utterly alone. She wrote to them sometimes, once in a great while they would write back, telling her which brother got married, which sister was pregnant, which cousin rode off with which King. She devoured the letters and longed to speak to somebody, anybody at all.

 

When Sansa Stark herself came home Walda was standing at the gates next to her husband and her intolerable step son. He was to marry her, at least that’s what Roose had told her. After a few hours to get herself settled Walda decided to visit. 

 

It had taken a little while for Sansa to understand the friend she had in Walda, just a poor girl in need so desperately of another woman’s companionship. At first she had deflected all attempts at conversation, locking her bedroom chambers. 

 

Things changed after her wedding night, her door was never unlocked. Walda would hear Ramsay take his leave, and she would come in. The room would be dark, filled with choked sobs and the smell of smoke from the extinguished candles. In the dark they formed a bond, as Walda would sit on the edge of the bed. She would brush Sansa’s hair, tangled and matted. Sometimes she would bring a cool wet rag and clean the blood from the younger woman if the night was particularly grueling. 

 

Conversation simply didn’t happen. Weeks passed and the unlikely friendship grew in blackened silence until the two communicated. 

 

“He’s going to kill me.” She said hushed in the predawn hours. “He’s going to force me to have his child, then he’s going to kill me. He’ll have no more use for me.” Her tears dripped down her face. Walda held her hands in her own. She never would have thought Sansa would speak to her - and her heart nearly burst with joy. So she swore the only thing she could.  


 

“He won’t kill you. I swear.” 

 

“When he finds out I’m..I'm..." She stopped, breaking off into sobs and unable to continue until Walda's large soft hand found a home in her own.. "Well it will just be a matter of time, once I have the baby I’ll be dead.”

 

“He will not kill you.” Sansa still sobbed. After all, who would believe Fat Walda Frey. A traitor to the North, who married into an even worse family. Who would think dumb slow soft Walda would be dangerous to anyone or anything except a loaf of bread or a fresh batch of lemon cakes. 

 

The next night at dinner Walda eyed Sansa across the table. Sansa looked down at her plate, her face bruised and battered as Roose pretended not to notice and Ramsay shoveled food into his maw. 

 

When he fell ill after dinner nobody was more surprised than Walda. Her eyes grew wide when he husband told her how his son was ill, how the maesters couldn’t understand what it was. When he started to bleed from his eyes they knew it was poison. Sansa had been in her chambers all day with her maid and one of the maesters. She had been having stomach pains. She would never be blamed. Roose had no benefit in his son’s death, although he didn’t have any particularly strong feelings concerning the matter. It did help that Walda was growing larger each day with his legitimate child. Her stomach straining against her already large dresses. 

 

In the end one of Ramsay’s pets; Reek, Walda though his name was, took the fall for Ramsay’s sudden death. He was blamed simply because somebody had to be. Ramsay wasn't missed by anyone or anything, but he was a legitimatized Bolton and therefore somebody needed to be punished. Reek was hung as a traitor three days later. He shivered and shook and when his neck finally broke he seemed to be smiling and Walda felt she had helped him as well - even if she couldn't understand how.  

 

Each and every night Walda would visit Sansa, who now spoke to her openly. They would sit on her bed with the candles flickering around them, each with a growing stomach and would tell each other all kinds of things from around the castle. Sansa talked about her mother sometimes. Walda never spoke about her family, but did talk about her childhood and the tourneys and the dances she had gone to. They would brush each other’s hair and tell each other secrets about the serving girls in the dining hall. 

 

In time Sansa knew she would never forgive the Freys. But perhaps, she thought, she could just this once forgive a Bolton. 


	13. 13. Cheater {Ramsay / Theon }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mild Throbb if you look at it hard. takes place in the same universe as sickness. sort of like a sickness II. cheating. slutty theon. anal plugs. all that good stuff.

 

 

Ramsay’s tired and thinking about where he left his red shirt. The one that was one size too large on him. It’s not in any drawer, not in the closet or washing machine. It’s gone. His phone vibrates.

  


_ >>come over. _

  _< <Why? _

_ >>my ass feels weird. _

  _< <What’s wrong? _

_> >it’s empty. _

_ >>im horny. _

_ >>plz come. _

  _< <Have Robb fuck you then. _

  _> >lol. _

_ <<No. Have your boyfriend do it. _

  _> >he won’t do it right. _

  _< <I won’t do it at all. _

  _> >ill call alyn. _

  


\--

  


He would never park in front of Robb Stark’s house. So he parks at the Costco across the street and a block over and walks the rest of the way in ankle deep mushy snow. When he rings the bell Theon answers dressed in only a red shirt. Ramsay’s red shirt. His knees are bloody already.

 

“You know from sucking off whoever wants me behind the bar- ‘round the corner” And Ramsay just knows he’s lying. Can see it in the way his eyes gleam, it’s to get him riled up. It won’t work, but he still can picture it. It’s probably from him cleaning the carpet or better yet - self inflicted just to get Robb _and_ Ramsay tense.

 

"You are so sick."

 

"I know."

 

Ramsay just stands in the doorway, mushy brown snow gathering at his ankles.

  


\--

 

Ramsay was finally settled into an old recliner, soft and brown and matching the Starks perfectly. It makes his stomach do sick loops to be sitting here, watching Theon on his knees licking his length.

When he stands up he shakes his ass, making a sick show of not wearing anything but that red shirt - when Ramsay spots the sparkling pink diamond wedged between his pale cheeks. He wants to vomit a bit, but instead his cock drips and he feels dizzy. When he takes it out and throws it across the room Robb’s dog tries to chase after it. He wants to forget how big it looked in his hand.

 

“Aye that cost a bit.”

 

“Tell your boyfriend to get you another one.”

  


\--

 

They’re fucking, Ramsay knows it’s completely wrong  - but he can’t help it at this point. Theon's riding him, his hands on Ramsay's knees, propelling him up and down.

 

“Why is your ass so wet?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Only it’s all said in heavy sighs that only Ramsay feels he can really translate. His fingers wrap around Theon’s face to find his mouth, he sticks a digit inside and lets him suck on it for a moment.

 

“Now, tell me why.”

 

“I fucked Robb before he left for work.” Ramsay’s stomach drops and rolls - tucks itself into a tight knot. It’s somehow so much worse than anything else he could have thought of. But he isn’t surprised at all. Instead he plunges his cock even harder into Theon’s wet mess of an ass, letting another man’s come be his lubricant.

 

“You’re a fucking disaster.”

 

“I know.”

  


\--

 

They stopped before either of them was really truly close to switch positions. Now Theon’s face down into the chair’s back cushion and his ass is in the air and Ramsay’s thighs burn. He knows the game well enough though. Knows what Theon wants.

 

“Don’t come.”

 

“Why not?” Only Theon can’t breath and his mouth is stuffed with strands of his hair and the fluffly cushions.

 

“You are not allowed. Only when I say you can. Understand me?”

 

He murmurs a response that can mean anything.

 

“If you come before me you’ll get punished.”

 

Theons whines, but he’s pleased. Ramsay knows it.

 

“Be a good boy.” Those are the magic words. Good boy. Like a dog, Ramsay thinks before he slams into him hard enough to hear somebody’s teeth rattle. It could be his - times like this always make him tense. He doesn’t know he’s biting his tongue until he tastes blood, then he eases up. Theon slams his hips back.

 

“Please.” Theon begs, knowing after all these words he’s the one with the control. “I wanna.”

 

“You won’t like your punishment.”

 

He shuts up, he slams his hips back, then he stills and stops and Ramsay does the same, bringing his hand down between them, stroking himself while Theon whimpers.

 

\--

 

When he finally comes, it’s with a heavy sigh, and he’s almost deaf to the words Theon’s begging.

 

“Please, please can I? Can I please?”

 

“Yes.”

 

It’s all it takes for Theon to gush over, panting and moaning and causing Robb’s huge grey hound to howl in time with him. When it’s all over there’s a thick white stain on the brown cushions under them.

 

“Robb won’t like what you’ve done to his seat.”

 

“It was his mother's.”

 

Of course.

  
  



	14. 14. Gender {Theon X Walda }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gender-swap, surprises, catfishing for a living. Never trust a pretty drink from a pretty lady.

Theon decided, two sips into his fourth martini - that he just wasn’t a martini kind of guy. He sloshed the bitter alcohol around his mouth for a second before letting it slide down his throat.  It burned. His nose smelled rubbing alcohol and he felt cheated. A buzz vibrated within him, his bones and mind rattling but still he felt lied to. He was promised a pear oasis. This tasted nothing like pear. The watermelon one before this had tasted the same as this one. The chocolate one before that only had slight hint of cocoa and that was because the rim of the fancy glass was dusted in chocolate powder. 

 

He couldn’t be too angry. There were still seven more minutes left in happy hour, martinis were normally eleven dollars, but from six to seven they were two dollars each. People lined up at the bar, but he had a seat already. Situated at a table for two, his head down as he listened to the distant sounds of the casino around him. The cash out sound rung in his ears as tacky top forty played on the loudspeaker. 

 

He hated sushi. Didn’t mind cooked fish, but raw it just freaked him out. The thought of gills and tentacles using his insides as a slip and slide made him feel nauseated and uneasy. He had ordered clear soup and noodles about thirteen minutes ago, when he finally gave up hope that this woman was going to show up. 

 

Robb set him up, telling him it would be in his best interest to stop sleeping around and get a real girlfriend - something long term maybe. He had the perfect girl. She picked the place, a fancy sushi bar in the center of the city’s hot spot, a newly opened casino. Theon hated sushi. He hated fancy places. He hated casinos. Casinos smelled like old people, perfume and oxygen tanks and smoke and over priced beer. He slurped at a stray noodle, trying to stop it before it slid off his chopsticks. He’d never been good at that either, and this place only used chopsticks. 

 

People would have watched and laughed if they weren’t stampeding for the last few moments of cheap drinks. He was glad he had his coat on the back of his chair instead of on the coat hooks across the bar. He’d just feel uncomfortable with so many people desperate for drinks around his keys and cash. He felt for his wallet in his coat pocket just to make sure nobody had attempted some great theft while he was chewing away and mastering the art of using twigs to eat his dinner instead of utensils.  

 

Theon was mid thought- thinking about how there was no sexy way for somebody to get off a bar stool. A blonde in a tight white skirt and chunky thighs was trying to slide off the high bar stools, her skin sticking to the leather, he thanked the gods that might exist somewhere that he was lucky enough to have a table with normal chairs, when somebody sat down across from him. 

 

He nearly jumped out of his seat. There she was, so much better than what he expected - which was little and nothing. Dark curls cascaded down her shoulders, piercing blue eyes the color of ice on a frozen lake, blood red lips curled into a smirk. She flashed perfect teeth and crossed her legs - long and muscular. Theon could see the movement under the tan skin as she shook one foot almost impatiently. She stayed quiet. 

 

“You’re, um...Walda?” He pictured a fat old woman reeking of flowers and carrying a handbag the size of a suitcase. Somebody who probably could pull out a wallet and show him fifteen pictures of cats, fifteen _different_ cats with human names. Her fingers would smell like tuna and Fancy Feast. One heartbeat ticked past before she nodded, her eyes narrowed slightly, judging him. 

 

“Sorry.” She said, but watching her, he found he could forgive her. She wasn't sorry anyway. Beautiful women never had to be sorry.   


 

“No, it’s fine - I just got here not too long ago myself.”  Not knowing what else to do, looking over his plate of half eaten noodles and four empty martini glasses he reached a hand out to her. 

 

“I’m Theon.” She took his hand, her long red nails digging into his skin.

 

“I know.” 

 

“Would you like a drink?” He started to ask, but by the time he finished the waitress was back as his table, with a pink martini. Strawberries decorated the rim and it looked delicious and perfect. Nothing like the clear drinks he’d been ordering. Sugar dusted the rim. Why hadn’t he ordered something like that before?

 

“Here you are Ms. Bolton.” The waitress said, her head hung low staring at the ground for a moment instead of her.  His mind buzzed. Instead he ordered a peach passion punch. She sipped at the drink. 

 

“I thought Robb said you were a Frey?”

 

“Nope, Walda Bolton. Sorry. He must have been mistaken, but if you’d like I can leave?” 

 

“No, stay. I must have heard him wrong.” Theon’s heart thumped loudly in his chest. Her eyes held him still. He was stuck. Stuck so badly that he didn’t watch, could only hear nails clicking against glasses and he didn’t care. 

 

She was magnetic and hypnotic. How Rob could ever know a woman like this was beyond him. She was so...so stunning he felt stupid just watching her. She asked a few questions for him. _What do you do? Where do you live? Where did you go to school? Any siblings?_

 

Theon managed to limp through the conversation like some sort of cripple until finally she leaned over the table, her dark red dress hiding just enough for his mouth to water. 

 

“What do you say I go get us two more drinks then we head out of this place?” She smiled but her icy eyes stayed frozen, pinning him down like a butterfly to a board. Shivers raced down his spine picturing those eyes looking up at him from a place between his legs. 

 

“Sure.” She whisked away to the bar, bringing back two blood red martinis. She sipped hers quickly. Theon had never tasted something better, a fruity cherry taste nothing like the medicinal cherry vodka he was used to. He struggled not to down the whole thing on one gulp. She was still sipping when he excused himself to go to the bathroom. 

 

In the center stall he ducked into, he sat down on the toilet and felt his head swim.  He pulled out his phone and punched in Rob’s number. 

 

“Hey, don’t wait up. I’m heading back home with Walda I think.” 

 

“Walda?” Robb’s sleepy voice buzzed on the line. Only he would be asleep by eight thirty. Only Robb would be in bed and ready for the next day when most everyone else was at least still watching the news. 

 

“Yeah, Walda. I don’t know how you know her, but gods did you set me up a good one.” He started to realize his voice was slurring. He hoped he wasn't that drunk and that it was more from excitement. He hoped Robb wouldn't notice and think he was fucking up a good thing.   


 

“Wait, what are you talking about?” 

 

“Walda, she finally showed up. After keeping me waiting like ninety minutes.” 

 

“Walda didn’t show up though.” Robb sounded dazed and confused. Thick and far off like he was underwater somewhere. Theon’s head vibrated, his eyes felt hot. The lids heavy. Words weren’t making sense to him right now. 

 

“But she's right there, waiting for me.”

 

“No, Theon. I have no idea who you picked up - but Walda texted Sansa this morning. Her grandfather is sick in the hospital. She’s like five hours away right now. She said she couldn’t do the date and asked Sansa to text you.” 

 

“What? What does she look like?”

 

“Walda? I don’t know, brown hair, short - heavy set. Those big thick glasses though. She’s a nice girl, looks don’t count for everything.” 

 

“I’ll …. I’ll call you back, my battery is dying. “ 

 

It was no lie. The conversation was now interrupted by a long beep every three seconds to signal the inevitable. But Theon felt off. Sick. Dizzy. Wrong.  Everything was blurry. His mouth felt so fucking dry he couldn’t even talk if he wanted to. Walda isn’t here. So who is? 

 

He stumbled out of the bathroom, to the sushi bar, to his table. She was gone. 

 

His keys and wallet missing too. Under his empty martini glass was a napkin with a dark red lipstick print perfectly imprinted. Dark black cursive beside it. 

 

_Thanks for the drinks, I’d suggest calling an ambulance though. Belladonna works almost as fast as I do. ~R.B._


	15. 15. Scent {Myranda / Ramsay }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's a bad bitch anyway?

Her pussy throbbed. Usually she was lost in the moment, thrusting and screaming and digging  her nails into the closest surface, but today her mind wandered. She was thinking about the radio and all those songs playing on the drive over. All those cunts singing about  _ bad bitches. _ Well she was a good one. One good bitch. At least that’s what he told her. She agreed with him. She liked to think about all those real bitches, the dogs in her father’s kennels and how they were trained perfectly. She had been whipped into shape too. And just like a good bitch, she could sniff out the competition.

 

When he pushed her face down onto his bed, when her nose met that plush blood red blanket she could just sniff out who was the last person in it. Everyone had their own scent, and she’d learned. Oh her nose adapted like any good bitch should. Some women might take offense; his wife for one would probably screech how it’s degrading to be called a bitch. Not her. She knew that a bitch wasn’t a bad word. When you watched those perfectly trained bitches out in the yard tear a man to pieces, well there were a lot more degrading things to be called. 

 

His wife, whom she had only met in passing once or twice for business, smelled like flowers, strawberry shampoo, and fear. If she was in the bed last there was always a little girl smell that clung to the sheets. It smelled like preteen slumber parties with cheap makeup and hairspray that had pink sparkles laced like LSD directly into the formula. There would be thin red strands of hair clinging to the pillows, curling at the very bottom. She was beautiful, like a picture of a model photoshopped to perfection but real.   


 

She was the absolute worst. She carried herself like a woman who was above everything. She had only come with her husband a few times to drop off dogs or pick up a new one. She never came alone. Her hands were always in her pockets, her coats were always washed and wool and straight from a magazine. Her face was too perfect, not a flaw to it. Lucky for all of them she didn’t like her husband much. He didn’t care for her either. He would always whisper how he was in it for her money. It wasn’t really much of a secret. 

 

If the sheets smelled like stale sweat, spilled beer, old cum, salt water - that was his boyfriend. There would be mid length curls, stark white. The man they’d belonged to she’d met a few times more than his wife but preferred only slightly better. He was strange, always cringing away from loud noises. He never really stood still. He was always twitching or twisting or doing something to cause his muscles to jump in nervous little motions under his skin. He came sometimes to pick up money, deliver briefcases of paperwork, or disappear into the backroom for whatever it was he needed to do for hours at a clip. She could take a guess or two. 

 

If he stayed with his wife for money, and her for the wonderful sex, she had no idea why he stayed with that creep. Something about his dead looking eyes always put her off, she couldn’t picture anybody fucking somebody who looked back at them like a rotting fish in a market stall. 

 

If she was the last person in the bed it would smell a little like blood, tangy and bitter. Sometimes there would be a faint scent of hair dye, she could never keep one color for too long. Sometimes it smelled like cheap bubble gum, her favorite thing to pop into her mouth - until his cock came along.  Vanilla and nail polish and dogs. That’s what she smelled like and she liked it. She loved stretching in his bed like a cat and knowing she was the last one there. She would hope just one of the other bedmates would get a whiff of her on the sheets and wonder just who exactly that smell belonged to.   


 

If he had been alone in bed the night before it smelled like him, the best scent that could assault her nostrils. He smelled like smoke, thick and cloying sometimes; a bitter taste she swallowed with her screams. Other times he smelled like gasoline, like the woods, like a thick cloud of humidity. 

 

She had thought she’d known every scent until today. She came over after work, as soon as she could, letting herself in the back door and ducking into the fridge to grab a can cheap beer. She popped the tab and took a long pull, waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Nothing. Where was he?

 

Putting the can on a coaster (like a good bitch should), she started up the stairs herself. He was probably in his study, or in bed. She hadn’t seen his wife’s car outside - his was parked where it always was. Her footfalls  were soft on the carpet leading to his bedroom. No sooner was she inside the door when it slammed shut behind her - there he stood. Dark and lean and powerful enough to overtake her, and she let him. He tugged down her work stained shorts, letting them pool around her ankles. His fingers hooked into her underwear. Unceremoniously he pressed her down onto all fours on the sheets. He told her time and again this was his favorite, his wife never let him fuck her like this. She loved it though. She dug her nose into the bed as he unzipped. 

 

But she stopped. What was this? It smelled like rain, fresh. There was an earthy scent buried under all the cleanliness.  She smelled the air of a perfect spring day, dewdrops in the sheets. No strawberries or sweat, no fear or dogs. No fire or bubblegum. Nothing but this strange new smell. She tensed, suddenly on guard. Somebody new, somebody different. 

 

He thrust into her suddenly, she was dry, her cunt screamed once feeling the burn between her legs, kindling trying to start a raging fire. She cried out, he pushed her head down further into the bed. Her scream muffled. 

 

“I do know you like it like this, so stop howling and enjoy it.” He was right and in a few quick movements she was soaked, still thinking of the smell, trying to put it out of her mind, trying to rationalize it. It slipped in and out of her thoughts and he took her, hard and fast with his hands bruising the tan skin of her waist. She bucked back against him, feeling so full and content she could almost forget - but then her nose would be back in the blankets and she would be forced to face it. 

 

It burned her sinuses. Pleasant enough but with a meaning that set her thighs to quivering. When he finally came, he rolled off her, leaving a dark sweaty stain on the sheets where he lay next to her. 

 

She thought and thought and thought again. She ran through her mind at breakneck speed; who, who, WHO did this smell belong to. It was driving her crazy. Was it a man or a woman? Young or old? Beautiful like his wife? Terrifying like that boy he fucked? When he got up and left without saying a word she followed, she was after all a good bitch. 

 

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw somebody else in the hallway, a man just like him, tall and dark and as handsome as they come. Curly dark hair, like his. Eyes like his. A smile wider than his ever was unless he was hurting something. 

 

Then it hit her, full in the nose - the smell of fresh rain. A deep earthy scent. Dewdrops and the perfect spring day, wafting off this stranger. 

 

He turned to her, obscuring her view for only a few moments. 

 

“This is my brother, he’s staying here for a few days. Making himself comfortable.” 

 

She was absolutely sure he was. 


	16. 16. Nyctophobia {Robb/Theon/Ramsay/Domeric}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon is afraid of the dark, so we should all play a game with the lights out.   
> This is my sick version of choose your own adventure. Pick your poison. (And they say you can't make 'em all happy.)

Theon had no idea why they ever had to come over here. Yes Ramsay’s dad was friends with Robb’s dad, but really at the end of the day he could never understand why that meant the boys had to get along. It wasn’t like they were friends. Domeric was okay, but he was going off to private school in a few months only creepy Ramsay would be left. Nobody really liked him, it seemed like his own father pushed him onto the back burner more often than not. So why exactly did Theon have to play nice? 

 

Tonight they would have to stay over - because Robb’s parents were going out. The girls would be staying with the Pooles and the other boys were staying with their aunt for the night. Robb took the news well enough but he was the first person to slam himself into the bedroom door he and Theon shared and swore up and down. 

 

“Why the hell do we always get stuck going over there? I mean I’m thirteen, you’re fourteen - come on. How long do we need a babysitter? Honestly, they can’t expect us to need somebody to look after us until we’re what? Twenty? Forty?” Theon only laughed because if he didn’t he would be shaking. He somehow always got stuck in the company of the youngest, stranger of the two while Robb got whisked off with Domeric. So tonight they had packed up with sleeping bags and pjs and all kinds of things to keep them busy through the night and had Robb’s dad drive them to the sprawling dark house that belonged to the creepiest family they knew. Theon still remembered the first time he and Robb saw that huge old house in the middle of the woods. He could remember the way the air felt against his ear as Robb whispered something about them being a modern day Adam’s family. Theon thought more along the lines of Texas Chainsaw Massacre.   


 

Tonight with the moon out; high and full in the dark starless sky Theon felt a shiver crawl up his spine. The darkness was what always got to him. It reminded him of his father, oh himself curled under a blanket waiting in the darkness of his room to try to hide from the oncoming storm. Even when they lights were off his father would hit harder and aim better than any man Theon ever knew. So even now, years after he had last seen his father he shuttered in the dark.  Robb got it somehow, understood that even though Theon was older he just needed the light in the corner of the room to stay on. It was part of the reason why Theon loved Robb like a brother. Part of the reason why Robb was blameless for everything. Even when he was left alone with that creepy bastard Ramsay - he couldn’t really blame Robb. 

 

\--

 

After the boys were shuffled inside and led into Ramsay’s room, the basement of course - they sat in a circle trying to decide what to do. Ramsay was barely thirteen himself and the smallest in the circle. He flicked his pocket knife open and shut rhythmically as Domeric suggested a few things. Everything seemed to be tossed out for one reason or another until finally - 

 

“Would anybody like to play a game?” Always the gentleman Domeric offered whatever they had. 

 

“Oh no - not fucking Candyland again. I’ll get a cavity from the fucking Lord of Licorice.” Ramsay snapped. “If you want to play a game I have a good one.” He flicked open his knife, stared at the gleaming steel then shut it again. Domeric eyed his brother across the circle. 

 

“Not such a good idea.” 

 

“Why not? Don’t think they could play?”

 

“No - I’m sure they would be fine it’s just - “

 

“Just what?”  Domeric sighed and shrugged, as if to say  _ see what I have to put up with _ . Theon would never understand how either or of the two wasn’t dead already. They seemed to get along, but barely as if they were always dancing on the edge of that constantly flicking switchblade. 

 

“We’ll do it - we don’t care, just tell us what it is.” Robb bit back at the brothers, never one to back down from the promise of a challenge. Once Robb accepted Theon could only nod and act the part, something he had learned to do very well since he had become an honorary Stark. 

 

“It’s call the midnight game. You have to invite the midnight man into your house and pray you don’t get caught.” Ramsay said for the first time with honest reverence towards anything. Robb rolled his eyes and Theon flashed every tooth he had. 

 

“Yeah? Sounds like a load of shit if you ask me.” Domeric’s eyes flashed to Theon’s. 

 

“I’ve played. If you want you two can tonight.” While the boys explained the rules Theon’s heart lurched in his chest. You needed to play in the dark, every light in the house off - at midnight. The thought of darkness around him made his throat tighten. 

 

“We will all be alone, you get a candle and - “ As they prattled on and on Theon wasn’t listening. Robb accepted the terms for the two of them - then they gathered the supplies. Theon tried a last minute plea. 

 

“Won’t your dad mind?” 

 

“He’s upstairs practically in the attic - as long as we don’t go the top floor and disturb him or queen cunt up there we’ll be golden.” Ramsay beamed.  Domeric elbowed him. 

 

“No way to talk about Walda, she’s done nothing to you.” 

 

“‘cept for being a cunt.” Ramsay muttered back.   


 

It seemed all conversation stopped at the boys trekked to the kitchen for some candles and matches. Ramsay sliced each palm with a methodically slow swipe of his knife and let each hand bleed their mandatory drop of blood onto their paperwork. Then each split up with a pocket of salt and candles and four matches each to a wooden door of their choosing. Theon wanted the main door to the house, surrounded by windows he had the light of the moon, but Domeric chose that one. Second choice was in the kitchen, the back door with a large pane of glass next to it - but Robb took that one. He tried the living room and found Ramsay waiting at the door. Which left Theon to the bathroom, a windowless dark room - pitch black and small. The sound reflected in the small area as he held his breath and checked his watch to knock the mandatory amount of times at midnight. 

 

Once all the steps were performed he began his aimless wandering around the house. It was even larger in the darkness and smaller at the same time. The blackness around him dulled his senses. He longed to hear footsteps, anybody’s. Even Ramsay’s would be welcome compared to the black veil that closed around him suffocating him in a sense. When he checked his watch he discovered it was sometime around two am and he let out a silent cry of joy. Only a bit longer, then they could turn on the lights and call it a night huddled in sleeping bags on the floor like normal people would. 

 

Suddenly, without warning his candle flickered then puffed out leaving only a trail of smoke to assault his nostrils. He panicked trying to wrench the matchbook out of his back pocket and in his paranoia dropped it somewhere, before he could drop to his knees blindly grasping for the matches in the pitch dark he felt someone near him. He would never know who it was. Even when they turned on the lights later that night no face gave away the secrets the dark would hold. 

 

“Who’s there?” He cried out, ashamed his voice was shaking. He tried to steady himself - backing up against a wall. The other person’s candle was out as well, if he even had it with him anymore. First he thought it was Ramsay, somebody fucking with him. Then he thought Domeric, who else would know the house well enough to wander around blind? His mind bounced off the idea it was Robb. He felt his ass his the wall behind him and he groped against it trying to find a lightswitch to call off the game. Maybe he could find something to use against the person coming closer.   


 

The shape before him, the physical mass of darkness never said a word, never gave a hint who it might be. Theon just felt fingers, warm and real against his stomach. He shivered under his thin shirt and held out his hand, thinking they were looking for that. Instead he was met with hands up his chest, his shoulders - resting there. Then something so unexpected he would never understand, lips against his own. Soft and yielding as if pleading with him wordlessly. They worked against his, tongue darting between lips. He could taste mint and wondered who had last brushed their teeth. Teeth gently bit down on his lower lips and he barely stifled the moan from his lips. 

 

He reached out, wanting to find purchase with something and coming up with a handful of cheap cotton in his fingers, the skin beneath was cool and hard  - unyielding against his touch. Domeric was the same height as Robb, Ramsay just a little shorter. It was all so hard to tell height when you can’t see. He let his hands run through hair. It was unnaturally soft and curly. It could be any of them he thought again sickly. They all had those soft gentle curls. Robb’s where tighter than the others, but in the darkness with his hands tangled in them and his lips so occupied he just couldn’t pin it down on one or the other. Bolton or Stark. 

 

Finally it was over, and he felt the shape pull away. He was breathless, panting and clutching his sides for a moment. Panic swept over him again, as he felt that person getting further away. 

 

“Please - please don’t leave me here. In the dark, please.” It was pathetic, he knew. But he couldn’t help the words tumble out of his mouth. He could almost sense the nod that whoever his midnight attacker had been was giving him. He felt fingers touch his own, then he was tugged and pulled. He was hopeful he’d get a glimpse of a face when they crossed before a window but they never did. Somehow Theon ended up in the bathroom he had started in, this time with his mysterious stranger’s matchbook. The dark shape shut the door and left, leaving Theon to light his candle in the bathroom all alone. 

 

Instead of going out and hunting around for the person without the lit candle, he sat on the toilet with his head in his hands, the candle on the floor in front of him as thought about fists and kisses and darkness. He finally came out when he heard victorious whoops coming from below him. He walked into the basement, with a grin on his face as if nothing had happened. Each candle was covered in melted wax, each person had a matchbook to display. He thought somebody must have picked his up. He searched faces but found no answer, so he just laughed the night off with the rest. 

 

They told each other fantastic stories about running into dark shapes that took their breath away, about having to make a ring of salt so they wouldn't get sucked into hell. Finally they let the night take over and they curled up in sleeping bags on the floor with one light in the corner on. Theon tossed and turned, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling of soft damp hair in his fingers, and finally he fell asleep thinking of how that kiss had felt and hearing the rhythmic click of Ramsay’s blade opening and closing. 


	17. 17. Bloodsport {Ramsay / Theon / Robb }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Robb and Theon are Throbb, and Ramsay and Theon are Thramsay what's Robb and Ramsay? Same universe as Sickness, so sickness III. Threesomes, slutty theon, collars, awkward sex that isn't so awkward in the end.

“Stark.”

 

“Bolton.”

 

Theon just sits in the third seat and watches the two over the rim of his coffee, all sugar and cream. It still made his mouth taste like tar no matter what he put in it. It makes his molars stick to his tongue.  The idea of that much sugar makes his whole body ache.   


 

“Why are you here?” 

 

“I can ask the same thing.” Ramsay eyes the eldest Stark from his side of the table, this was all Theon’s work of course. He felt it in the knot of his stomach. 

 

“Well, it’ll be my birthday soon.” Theon spoke up, his mouth full of carrot cake. Robb’s carrot cake that he hadn’t touched at all since Ramsay had sat down. Ramsay still didn’t know why he bothered sitting down instead of just turning on his heels and walking out the door the way he’d come. 

 

Robb’s eyebrows shifted, Theon licked frosting off his upper lip, Ramsay’s stomach growled.

 

“Do you know what you’re getting me?” Theon asked Robb, sipping his coffee. Robb shook his head, confusion clouding his features.   


 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

 

“Well I know what I want.” Theon winks.   


 

Ramsay knows where this was going. He wished he walked away. 

  
  


\---

 

Theon’s idea of setting the mood was to put on the 700 club and turn all the lights in the house on, even the light in the closet. Once they take off each other's clothes they'll see each other the way you would on a porn set  - like you're in the center of a sun.   


 

Ramsay’s idea of dressing nice for the worst night of his life was getting himself a set of brand new red socks. For some reason getting naked with Robb Stark seemed much more bearable if his socks were clean and hole-less. 

 

Theon was the one to answer the door. He was dressed mostly modestly, for Theon at least. Real clothes, a holy green shirt that Ramsay recognized from his closet and a pair of black jeans. Also a collar that read  _kitten _ but Ramsay chose to ignore it. Robb sat in that brown recliner watching televangelists talk about miracles. If they all lived through tonight they could guest star on the show’s next episode. 

 

\---

 

“This song always gets me in the mood” Theon says turning on something by Gary Numan. After a few minutes it all sounds the same, just a mindless noise behind Pat Robertson. This is the worst kind of porn, but Ramsay still gets hard when Theon takes off his pants. He looks over and Robb’s pants are tenting too. At least he’s not alone. 

  
  


\---

  
  


They get up to the bedroom and there it is, the TV with the damned 700 club again. 

 

“Is this all you watch?” Ramsay asks, tearing his lips away from Theon’s for a minute for air. Somebody’s fingers are tangled in his hair and Robb’s lips are pressed to the back of Theon’s shoulder. 

 

“Only when I want to fuck.” 

  
  


\---

  
  


Once in bed it’s much more natural than they could have expected. Theon’s on his hands and knees, Ramsay’s fucking his mouth because he feels it’s only right for Theon’s actual boyfriend to get his ass. At least first. Or maybe only. Ramsay has a hard time tearing his eyes away from Theon's pale neck stretched out  accommodating his length while still restricted by that stupid collar. Has anyone ever called Theon a kitten? He looks over the body and sees a lot fewer bruises and bite marks than what Theon would probably like.   


 

Theon’s teeth graze the cock in his mouth gently every time Robb pushes into him, Ramsay can feel Theon’s smile against his groin. He’s moaning and grunting and pushing himself between the two and Ramsay looks up and finds that Robb fucks with his eyes closed. 

 

He wonders what he’s thinking of. 

  
  


\--

  
  


When they attempt to switch spots they end up getting tangled in each other and Theon, well he just wants to enjoy the show. Ramsay had been shuffling over to Theon’s ass, Robb had been trying to get off the bed to stand up and find a spot by his mouth but somehow they tumble over each other and Ramsay lands face first on Robb’s chest. 

 

With his hands there against the hard muscles that feel very different from the kind of stringy people he normally fucks he can’t help touching all over. 

 

Robb seems to like it because he lets him, lets his fingers roam over the peaks of his shoulders, over the pits in his abdomen, then he wants to taste. His lips kiss at the spots behind his ears looking for a weak point in the armor and finds none. He sucks at an earlobe, his neck, his collarbones. His fingers feel the hard thigh muscles, he glides gently across Robb’s cock, he leaves his finger prints all over Robb until he hears Theon’s cough behind him on the bed. Robb opens his eyes.   


 

They both look up. 

 

“It’s still  _ my  _ birthday you know.” 

 

They pull apart and go back to the boney figure stretched across the bed, who whines with a contentment only he could manage. 

 

\--

  
  


When it’s all over and done Theon’s the kind of disgusting sticky mess he wants to be, laying on the bed with his head off the side. He’s watching somebody interview a pastor in one of the Carolinas about seeing the image of the Virgin Mary in a bowl of mac and cheese. He’s upside down and half asleep. _Kitten_ still adorns his neck.   


 

Ramsay stands up and wishes Theon a happy birthday. He pulls on his clothes and heads to the bedroom door. When he’s standing in the doorway he turns back to look at the two on the bed Robb is looking directly at him.

  
“You know, you can stay the night if you want.” He says, all business, but he’s still naked on the sheets and when he looks at Ramsay his soft cock twitches against his thigh. They make eye contact and Ramsay wishes he left the coffee shop when he had the chance. Since you can’t change the past he turns back into the bedroom and takes off his shirt again. It's a good thing he bought those new socks.   



	18. 18. Dieties {TheonxDaddy Issues}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> backstory. love. passion. worship. Theon gives everything his all until he has nothing more to give.

Theon worshiped gods all his life. He felt by the age of twenty four that he was a deeply religious man. His gods weren’t like others though. His were singular and human and forever holy to him. 

 

First was his father, a schizophrenic drunk who enjoyed the title rather than denied the label. A man who’s moods and fist swung entirely on sport’s scores, Theon’s brother’s paychecks and free internet porn. A truck driver who was more often away than home. His impact was felt at all times and Theon treated him the way devout Catholics treat demons - with an odd mix of adoration, terror, and reverence. Hatred was sometimes congealed inside that fatty mass of feelings - plugging up his heart valves with unkept promises, raw nerves, and tender bruises below the collar. 

 

His favorite thing to do as a child was run the tub’s water scalding hot. He’d lock the bathroom door and press things against it so it wouldn’t be kicked down. He’d sit in the tub his ass freezing on the icy porcelain with the stopper down and run nothing but hot water, his mother slamming his frail fists against the wood outside demanding he stop it now before he used all the hot water. He’d sink down into the murky water that tasted like the iron tang of the faucet and pipes under his house and submerged for as long as he could. The steamy swamp he’d made himself would heat up the room and his lungs and he’d burn from the inside out until he emerged pink and shining and ready for the endless empty threats of an almost single mother. 

 

When his oldest brother ran away and died, when the middle problem finally got arrested, when his sister suffered her first miscarriage at the age of fifteen Theon was taken away. He was nine. His father would be the angry god with his fist too tight around a child’s soft upper arm, then when they (another benevolent  _ they _ ) finally managed to wrench him away his father simply sat in front of the TV while his mother screamed and cried and tore at her own face. His father’s last words were  _if you want him take him. _

 

Then came Ned. That was his second god. Ned was something that could be compared to finally knowing God himself after only praying to Jesus for half your lifetime. Ned was his foster home for _almost_ ten years. He was mighty and filled with a justice that few possessed. If his father was Poseidon this was Zeus. Somebody so strong, such a perfect statue of righteousness that it made everyone else seem like putty in their morals. 

 

Theon tried - surrounded by fellow children, most of which were Ned’s own all younger than himself. He would excel and when he was met with no true reaction he fell behind wanting something  - anything he could sink his teeth into. Something real and substantial. As he spread his wings, flapped and tried to soar the children grew with him. He discovered excellence, perfection was expected. Stark genes ran gold and pure. Greyjoy genes did not, even when he tried he found it didn’t produce the desired effect. Ned died when Theon was sixteen. Robb was fifteen. The new man of the house before he could drink, he moved into the position of power in Theon’s mind. 

 

Young, Hercules almost. Probably the most fun he’d ever had, it was like one of those ancient Greek stories where the gods are young and beautiful with long dark hair and curly eyelashes that flutter rapidly. He was sweet and smart but so very easy to guide. Theon’s former prayers to unhearing forces became actions and deeds and Robb was just so simple. Robb trusted too easily, gave himself up without fighting. He didn't require prayers and praise. Theon had to leave. 

 

At eighteen he hopped into a red pickup truck with a man he’d met for two hours one night when he was drunk. God four. Hades. Darkness to his light, tainting him and seeping into his veins until his cold saltwater blood ran frigid. Until he was made of the rusty copper water that filled his boyhood tub. He was stained through and through.   


 

Ramsay. Hades. Underworld the color of blood and stripped flesh. The color of fading bruises and split lips. He had offered the sweetest pomegranate with icy cold fingers and Theon took it because he had no other churches to run to. He only had the setting sun coming through dark window panes and playing off the river Styx. He had always loved that band.   


 

If his father required reverence, Ned had wanted respect, Robb wanted love, Ramsay wanted it all and more. Hades wanted more than Theon could ever give. When he had finally been broken to the smallest bits of bone he would ask why. And Ramsay would only say how beautiful it was to have somebody who believed in him. Who would light a candle inside his heart to pray to some one no one loved. 

 

He would lay with his god of death and tell him he loved him more than anything in the world and he did mean it. He loved him with such a fire that scars meant nothing, just signs of what was between them that could never be taken away. Until it was. When the god of death is dead who do you turn to? When Hades finally gave into an ending that had been coming for not just years but millenniums Theon was lost. He counted his scars. He examined his broken bones, his broken heart, his broken courage, his broken mind. He looked at himself and at all the gods he had killed with his desire to be part of something bigger than he was. Greek gods only live forever in stories. 

 

Perhaps now he would try his hand at being an atheist. 


	19. 19. Ghastly {TheonxRobb}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> background Thramsay. death. this hurts everyone guys.

“Seriously, why don’t you just stop seeing her?” 

 

“It’s not that easy.” 

 

“Why?” Theon asks, spread out on Robb’s bed, his head dangling dangerously off one side. Robb stands in front of his closet comparing two grey ties. “Those look the absolute same by the way.” Robb gives a heavy sigh that corresponds with Theon’s eye roll.  He tosses the tie in his left hand onto the back of his desk chair. “I hate her. Totally hate her. You should stop seeing her, you shouldn't go through with all this bullshit."  


 

“I hated him.” Robb says, “never stopped you before.” His voice is low as his eyes lock onto Theon’s on the mirror. Theon has the decency to shut his and tip his head off to the side, he shows off faded red rope burns across his neck like sun aged tattoos. “I think I hate those just as much.” He hisses under his breath, but Theon takes no notice. His sleeves ride up and the matching marks are exposed. It’s like he exists today solely to bother Robb. 

 

“Why do you keep me around if you never listen to me?” Theon asks, sitting straight up, defying the gravity of the room and using his abs to keep his posture as rigid as possible. He inches his way back into a comfortable spot on the bed. “And you hate me.” He throws as an afterthought as he fixes his shirt, covering his neck as best he can. 

 

“First of all, “ Robb starts, spinning on his heels and managing to turn so quickly his hair fans out into a mess of wet curls behind him, sending a spray of shower water droplets across the reflection of the two in the mirror behind him, “ I do not hate you. I never said I hated you. Not once. Ever.” His eyes seem wild for a moment, crazed. Theon ignores it because at this point nothing hurts him. “I hated him, I hate him. You know that. I hate what he did…” He trails off and Theon props himself up on Robb’s pillows and rolls his sleeves down.  “Secondly, you know my family. You know I have to marry somebody...it’s what my father would have wanted.”

 

“What about what I wanted?” 

 

Robb gets silent, hushed into submission, stunned into sitting down on the edge of the bed. He hates the truth because it immobilizes him. Theon doesn’t make a move to comfort him. He just sits at the top of the bed, lounging on top of the pillows like a prince. 

 

“You’ll never believe me but I wanted the same things that you did once.” Robb manages, his fingers playing with the tie he’s still clutching.  His throat feels like a desert. Theon’s eyes shine with disbelief. 

 

“You’re right there then, I don’t believe you.”  Robb gets up off the bed, going back to the closet, looking again at the grey tie he threw back on the chair. “So why do you keep bringing me back here? If you’ve got the life and never listen to me and hate looking at me because all you see is him?” 

 

“Why do you keep coming back if you don’t believe me?”  Robb manages. He opens the closet door and hangs the second choice tie up. He takes it back down and smooths it with his hand. Hangs it back up again. Theon shrugs. Then the door opens.  Just a crack at first but then it’s wide open and Robb’s mother is walking inside the room, looking around, peering into the corners and on the bed. Searching in the darker parts of the small space for something out of the ordinary. 

 

“Who were you talking to?” She demands, “Please tell me it’s not him again.” She spits, it almost sounds angry, but Robb knows his mother well enough to hear all the concern underneath. Can see a sadness inside her eyes that hasn’t left since Robb started seeing Theon again. 

 

“Myself. I’m just nervous about tonight.” He lies, looking at the droplets sliding down the mirror. It’s only him and his mother. Her faces softens in the watery reflection as she approaches him, her eldest, her first boy, her first real love. 

 

“Robb,  I know you’re scared. I know how hard things have been since Theon….died. Nobody feels worse about it than I do, and I’m sure you father would have felt the same….but just know we’re so very proud of you for staying strong for us. For me. For the whole family. We all miss him Robb.” She tries to embrace him and he lets her because it’s easier that way. To just let her arms wrap around him, clutching him the way he had clutched his tie, the way he clutches the straws inside his mind that he wasn’t really crazy.  The way he clutches himself at night when he wakes up from nightmares and all he can do is hold himself together. 

 

When she lets herself out of the room Robb is still alone. He looks at his two ties again, both grey, both wrinkled now. He looks back at the bed and as if he needed proof his sheets are wrinkled where Theon sat. Except there is no Theon. 

 

The air is as thick as honey. 

 

“Theon?” He asks, softly. Praying even though he stopped believing in god when they lowered him into the ground just over one year ago. 

 

He’s met with silence. He begins to get ready for his wedding alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allrighty pals, I'm open to suggestions about themes. I mean I can't promise I'll do them all or anything but some inspiration might be cool. Cause I think you guys have some pretty sweet ideas. Just saying. (maybe a little tipsy writing this, so all my apologies concerning spelling / grammar / nonsense)


	20. 20. Yikes {Damon x Theon}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stag parties get boring. theon and damon meet in the bathroom to make somebody jealous. not exactly true to the request but sorta kinda true?for TrueOrFalse.

Damon had been sitting at Ramsay’s right side for most of the night - it’s only natural for a best man to take the right hand spot. After all Ramsay is getting married in less than  forty two hours  but the only words that Damon can think of are _fucking yikes._ This is of course directed at everyone involved in this shit show. Not just the people present at the bar in this current moment but towards Ramsay’s father, Ramsay himself, his bride to be, his part time boyfriend, his part time girlfriend, himself. Fucking. Yikes.

 

Ramsay was getting married to Arya. Fucking. Stark. Of every single person in the world _she_ would be the last that Damon could picture walking down the aisle in a white dress, but with or without his blessing it was all planned out to happen in just a few hours at the Stark country club of choice. The reason for such a union was ambiguous at best, more than likely all linked up in the power of the dollar bills. That didn’t make anything better.

 

Damon knew Ramsay better than most, knew he was the kind of guy who not just took what he wanted but owned it totally and utterly until he was done with it. He could not give back someone or something he hadn’t had his fill of yet. So Arya was in for a mess of a life if she thought she could just waltz in, date this fucker for a few months then haul off and get hitched without any issues. If it was because the Starks needed cash. If it was because Arya was stupid enough to think she found love. The things Ramsay loved ended up crumbled like candy bar wrappers and thrown out of car window at three am.

 

So this whole mess of a boy’s night out comes down to the groom’s party, Theon - part time cum dump for the groom himself was suppose to be in charge since Damon had been tasked with getting the suits, getting the limo, setting up the honeymoon - at least Theon could help with this much. It, of course, wasn’t meant to be that way.

 

Since Theon is not really the kind of guy who’s able to form a whole sentence by himself Damon had to set up the stag night too. It was a strip club first that none of the boys were interested in, hooters for dinner, ended up at a shooting range before Ramsay thought it would be fun to point his pistol at Theon’s face and tell him to suck it like he sucks cock.

 

Now none of them were welcomed back there and since it had been way too early to head home they ended up going to a local bar. Ramsay seemed in his element flirting with some brunette bitch across the bar for most of the night, teaching her how to shoot pool when she drunkenly sidles up to him and asks him how to hold the cue. Only she just called it her stick all breathless and let him whisk her away.

 

When he sits down it’s between his two favorites, Theon and Damon of course. He spreads his arms across the twos shoulders and he’s beginning to get just drunk enough to not exactly notice the looks Damon is sending Theon. It is a mix of boredom and envy. Theon understands the mix all too well. The other boys are causing a ruckus by some tables near a DJ. Skinner is sitting off to the side, watching everything unravel like a shitty sweater.

 

“Here we are boys, my life as a bachelor comes to a close and I have nobody around me but the best. “ Ramsay babbles on for a few more moments, only removing his hands from the two boys’ shoulders to signal the bartender over. He orders a shot and then stands up to put his greedy fingers on some red head with double D tits who’s throwing darts. He has to show her the right way to do it and Damon is watching Theon’s lips wondering how he really does suck cock. The image accompanies the smell of gun smoke and fall leaves.

 

Theon’s got a split lip from Ramsay attempting to shove the gun in his mouth at the range, but otherwise he looks how he always does, perfectly precisely disheveled. His hair is all soft curls and his eyes are narrow as he stares at Ramsay across the bar with his sticky hands resting on her hips. Whoever _her_ is right now.  Damon looks over and there is he all right, Ramsay with his fingers up her thigh and he can smell her cunt from here and his stomach flips. Maybe it’s the beer or the need to do something to fuck over this guy who could care less about everyone but himself but he finds himself standing up and reaching out with an unsteady hand to touch Theon’s wrist.

 

It’s too loud in the bar to talk, the other boys, Alyn and Dick talking and toasting to the groom, Skinner saddling up to the girl Ramsay left at the pool table, Damon thinks _this doesn’t even matter._ Theon makes eye contact for a moment and it seems like he agrees because they head into the bathroom together silently, slipping away from the group.

 

Damon’s never really thought of Theon _that_ way, only letting brief flashes into his mind of what Ramsay must see in him to keep him around. He’s never even thought of how Theon would look between his own knees until just a few minutes ago. Damon didn’t even really think he wants to _fuck_ Theon Greyjoy, but they are in this stuffy little bathroom and Damon suddenly wants him. Almost to make Ramsay pissed off, almost to make himself pissed off, almost to make Theon prove a point about how he’ll fuck anybody. There is barely enough room for two people in the bathroom next to the sink and two stalls.

 

It hits Damon like a punch to the gut now that they are both standing here and just looking at each other how much bigger he is, how much more in control he is. He could pin Theon against the door and tear off his pants and fuck him raw, but that’s not what he wants. That is what Ramsay would do, what he would want. Ramsay would wrap his fingers around Theon’s neck tight enough to leave bruises. Damon knows this fact because he’s seen them, perfect little dark purple imprints. Ramsay would rip Theon into pieces. So Damon doesn’t.

 

“He doesn’t care about you.” comes out softly, a hushed whisper. Theon looks like he already knows this. His eyes are soft grey, they shine with understanding that Damon can’t begin to comprehend.

 

“He doesn’t care about you either.” Theon echos like a ghost, all they can hear from the bar is laughter and a heavy bass line. They both know Ramsay is out there, slipping his fingers into some girl he’ll never meet again. That’s when Theon’s lips are meeting his and they stumble into a stall because the bathroom door doesn’t have a lock on it and they can’t let anyone from the party see them like this.

 

Theon ends up on his knees with all of his clothes still left on and Damon can’t even unbutton his pants. All he can think of is Ramsay’s face with his cold eyes and his sneer. When Theon’s fingers press greedily into the soft meat of his thigh all he can see is Ramsay’s fingers pressing into _anyone_ else’s body. He shakes his head, fuck him. Fuck. Him. Fuck Ramsay Bolton.

 

He looks at Theon’s eyes, all watery wet, his lips glistening red. He manages to unzip his fly and ends up almost kneeling on the toilet as Theon sits on the back of his ankles on the stall floor trying to find the perfect angle in the extra small cubical. His wet lips wrap around the cock before him before Damon can have a second though and he’s thankful because if he thought to much he would stop this. Theon swallow Damon’s length like he’s used to it, he doesn’t even gag when it hits the back of his throat and Damon gives him a few gentle thrusts before he starts face fucking him in earnest.

 

Damon moans running his hands through those soft curls and his fingers snag on knots. He can feel bumps under the surface of the skin of his scalp and wonders what those are from - then lets it escape him. He knows it’s Ramsay and he doesn’t want to go there, only wants to focus on the man between his legs who is making obscene slurping sounds when his lips meet the base of Damon’s cock. His tongue juts out casually lapping at his balls and Damon sees stars in neon colors.

 

“Are you hard?” He asks, the first thing he’s said since they got into the stall that makes any kind of sense. Theon shakes his head a soft no, but it’s okay. Damon knows if tonight is hard for him it’s even harder for Theon so he lets him suck at him until he’s almost at the point of release, he feels the fire inside the bottom of his gut snake it’s way into his cock.

 

That’s when the bathroom door opens and they both freeze, Damon with his hands tugging at Theon’s hard and Theon with his lips wrapped around Damon’s cock, still sitting mostly on the floor. They lock eyes, panic exchanged between the two in short rapid fire bursts. Theon doesn’t move his head an inch and Damon doesn’t breath at all. They can hear somebody moving around in the small room, bumping into the sink, the stall door, then rigidity sets in when realization hits that it’s him. Ramsay, in the stall over.

 

His footsteps, his heavy sigh as he begins to piss just inches over. He doesn’t even know, he can’t possibly know, and yet Theon looks terrified. Damon feels the same, mortified, but when he hears Ramsay muttering to himself inches away his cock twitches, and Theon starts sucking, silently again.  All he can think of is that he’s fucking something that belongs to Ramsay. Theon seems to have the same thought as his eyes glaze over and his tongue begins to work double time. Ramsay isn’t even out of the bathroom when Damon manages to come, softly and quiety into his mouth.

 

When Ramsay leaves making as much noise as possible on his exit, Theon stands, his mouth empty and his cock hard. Damon sneaks one hand into his too tight jeans to relieve the tension and he finds that he's glad he’s not the only one who hates Ramsay’s idea of a good time.


	21. 21. Full Moon { Ramsay / Robb }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Sickness IV. Because I am now in love with the whole world I've created. Plot? What plot. Ramsay liked some parts of Theon's birthday gift. Robb needed eggs from Costco. Rug burn isn't fun when you're a virgin.

 

Theon’s hair is on everything. The sheets. Their clothes. The chairs. It’s crushed into the carpet and weaved into the furnitures upholstery. When Ramsay takes a tentative sip of green tea he feels one long strand worm it’s way down his throat. He lets it slip down him and rest somewhere below his heart. He doesn't remember seeing it in his cup but he may have missed it. 

 

“Where is he?” He’s used to using his weight in his words. Robb is too though so the next words carry the same amount of power. 

 

“Out.”

 

Ramsay takes another sip of tea to wash the last bit of hair down. It starts to form a nest inside his hollow stomach. It’s warm and wet and homey. He hopes a robin will lay her eyes inside it and take comfort in the safety of it all. He's delusional. 

 

“Out?”

 

“Out.”  Robb sounds short. Ramsay doesn’t even know why he’s over here at all. At least he keeps telling himself he doesn’t know, deep down though he does. He sees Robb naked and spread out on a bed waiting for him while Theon sleeps half on the floor. He thinks of things that could have happened. Should have happened. Things that didn’t happen.

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Robb watches Ramsay who watches his tea go from boiling to lukewarm, then cold.  When he speaks again his voice sounds less heavy in a confident way and more heavy in a husky way. It’s a voice Ramsay doesn’t recognize from the short conversations they’d had.

 

“Want to go upstairs?”

 

Ramsay thinks of Theon spread out in that bed between the two of them. Thinks of his watery eyes and the pitch of his voice when the two of them collapsed together.  Thinks of the way Theon would pitch that phrase differently, all his emphasis on adding in extra vowels.  _ Wanna go up? _ He would ask with his head tilted down. Thinking of the bedroom makes him think of Theon. 

 

“Have anywhere else?”

  
  


-

 

“We shouldn’t be here.” Ramsay says one moment of clarity piercing him through the brain in a lightning white flash. It forces him to pull away for a minute, his ass resting against the spare bedroom’s dresser. He looks at Robb as if he'll come to his senses as well. 

 

“It’s my house.”

 

“You’re his boyfriend.”

 

“Tell me you never fucked him since you two broke up.”

 

Ramsay almost has the guilt inside him built to a point where he would look away, embarrassed for himself and for Theon but he’s never gotten that far. He pictures butt plugs, kitten collars, words and names and handcuffs. Instead he narrows his eyes into predatory slits and stares into Robb’s. 

 

He’s got no shame anymore. So he gives no answer, no yes or no or maybe - so. He can play this game easily enough. It's not even that hard while Robb's fingers reach out for his belt loops again. 

 

“Can we stop talking about him for once?” 

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Ramsay makes sure both of their lips are too occupied to speak much after that. 

 

-

  
  


“Have you ever really been fucked?”

 

Robb looks scared, his hair is all dark and curly on his face which looks much rounder when it’s being pressed against the carpet of the guest bedroom. He shakes his head once, his face scraping against the brown rug. He has the dark shadow of a mustaches beginnings above his upper lip. His forehead is beaded with sweat. 

 

“Okay, tell me if you need me to stop.” Robb nods once. Ramsay knows he won’t stop. There is no safe word in the world that would make him give this up. His hands find a place on Robb’s ass before his greasy fingers find a place inside Robb. Robb finds a place somewhere not on this Earth with his eyes shut and his breath stuck inside his throat. 

  
  


-

 

They both think of Theon in different ways but at the same time. Robb wonders if this is how he feels, every time Robb's ever tried anything with him. Like he's open and on display. Ramsay thinks of Theon's ass. Thinks of Theon's voice always begging for more far before he's ready. 

 

-

 

“You might want to breath.” Robb’s face is almost purple, his lips are clamped tightly against each other.  “Do you want to get on the bed?” Robb’s head shakes a quick no. A bed is too personal. They both think of the person between them who isn’t here. His mouth opens, his exhale is audible.

 

“Just make it good okay?” It comes out rushed and frantic. He's finally sounds younger, he sounds his age. He has nothing to throw around now. Ramsay’s harder than he thought he could ever be watching the well defined muscles on Stark’s back shifting under his skin just to suck in air. Ramsay’s worked three fingers into Robb’s ass, starting slow then gaining speed until Robb stopped breathing again. They’re both so hard it’s painful. Now they’re ready for the real fun to start. Ramsay’s cock drips from precome and the lubricant he brought with him. 

 

“Yeah, okay.” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

_

  
  


Robb is in fact a screamer. It is not what Ramsay pictured or imagined when he watched him fucking Theon last time. Not a bad screamer, but enough to surprise him with the volume. It takes him a few minutes to get used to the invasion, a new feeling. Ramsay. 

 

It was a sharp loud moan at first that turned into something more like a growl. Ramsay is just happy they locked up the dog before they started. When he starts moving his hips Robb almost sounds in pain, his groans and cries getting louder. This boy has watched too much porn, Ramsay thinks, but his hips don't care. He fucks him harder than he probably should. 

 

Robb doesn’t say no. Ramsay doesn’t stop.

 

-

 

Ramsay’s confident enough to not have to ask if it was good, he knows it was good. He felt Robb’s cock twitching in his hand, saw how his muscles went stiff then slack with his orgasm, felt his ass clamping tight and hot around Ramsay’s cock. He doesn’t have to ask if Robb liked it, because he knows he did. So he doesn't say anything, just lets his air come and go, let's the drops of sweat drip down his back. 

 

Neither of them are really the cuddling type so instead Ramsay settles for the most romantic post sex behavior he can muster, giving Robb a towel to dry off the come dripping down the back of his thighs. 

 

Robb takes it gratefully. He looks young still scared, totally spent. He looks well fucked with his lips all red and wet. There's a rough red patch on his cheek where it met the carpet. His face is set though. He's back to holding his power, shifting all his weight from word to word. 

 

“He’s gonna come back soon. He only went to the store.”

 

Ramsay just watches while Robb stands up and attempts to gather his own clothing from the hap hazard piles around the room. He’s handed his jeans back first. He sits on the floor looking at them as if he’s never seen them before.

 

“You should probably go.”

 

Ramsay tugs one pant leg on then has to take it off because he’s forgotten all about his underwear. Robb tosses them over his shoulder. Ramsay catches them with one hand. They can't really look at each other the way they were able to over the kitchen table. 

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

"Okay."

 

"Yeah." 

 

 


	22. 22. Consent {Ramsay / Reek }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally part of Teen Idle that didn't fit. Reworked a little. master/pet. bloodplay. knifeplay. little tiny bit of humiliation? tiny bit. little bit of aftercare.

“I can’t read your mind. Speak.” 

 

But it hurt to open his mouth, hurt to even think about it. He had spent the past hour sitting on the bathroom floor, letting the cold seep into him like a disease. Punishment was best administered by Ramsay, but he knew how and when to punish himself. His mind had wandered all over. He'd lost himself. He was thinking about his master without his permission and he had even acted on his thoughts. He had touched himself when he shouldn't have. Until Ramsay found him on the bathroom floor, letting his body go numb while he tried to clear his mind.   


 

_Speak. Beak. Seek. Reek. Reek. Reek._ He had started this to keep him calm but it always backfired. One day he had been home alone and found himself rhyming.  He had heard a word and just started thinking about it on repeat until he wasn’t thinking anymore. It helped sometimes. At least it emptied his mind. It slowed his heart. It helped his lungs from fluttering away like butterflies inside his chest.   


 

_House, Mouse, Louse, Louse, louse louse  -_

 

“Louse. Louse. Louse.” His voice caught, the word becoming a clot in his throat instead of a remedy.  He’d been stuck time and again in the same loop. It happened that way sometimes, and now with Ramsay taking his hand and bringing him from the bathroom to the edge of the bedroom. The words chased each other around inside him.   


 

_Reek_ pounding in his head, he tilted against the doorframe. He shivered. He wanted to cover himself but couldn’t, woudn't. He deserved any feelings he might have of discomfort. He felt the air causing goosebumps to prickle everywhere on his body. This was against all the rules, but Ramsay didn’t seem to care. He just sat on the bed looking at him. Expecting words. Expecting phrases that couldn’t be spoken out loud. 

 

Reek titled his head towards the ground. He let his eyes look up through his lashes in a manner he hoped was vaguely sensual. Pleasing or pleading he attempted emotion as best he knew how anymore. Once upon a time he could make anyone feel anything with one look, now he was desperate to convey anything with his eyes. Those thoughts were coming back watching his master sitting on the bed. He ached in his chest for something to make him ache in a different way. To think about it would be to become trapped in another loop. He stepped out of his mind as easily as somebody can step out of a doorway.  

 

“Speak. I won’t ask again, whore.”He spits the last word out, it lands at Reek's feet and sends him to trembling again.   


 

He twisted his hands together, his lips dried on his face to the point of being useless. He tried because if he didn't it would be disobeying a direct order, an order his master had said many times now.  

 

“Please.” It was all he could muster. Words wouldn’t work. He knew if he had to say what he wanted it would break him. He couldn’t do it. Would not do it. He walked into the room, his feet feeling utterly incomplete on the carpet, so much softer than anywhere else in the house. His bare toes were numb.   


 

_ Reek, reek, reek, reek, reek, re - _

 

He knelt in front of Ramsay, his knees knocking together, did he ever know the name of the kneecap. It’s some bone, click - clacking together down there. His cock pulsed. His open mouth in a soft O as he waited. Ramsay watched. His face growing impatient. He wanted to speak, he did.   


 

Now. If he didn’t do it now it wouldn’t happen. It had been days but it felt longer and he couldn’t go without longer. He felt incomplete like a man falling apart. He was emptiness personified. No more times for games, no more rhyming inside his skull. _Now. Now. Now._

 

His fingers were reaching into the pocket before him and found what they were looking for. It was simple. Once you knew a person better than you knew yourself you just knew what was in their pockets. You knew what you would find before your fingers found it.   


 

The blue one today. A turquoise almost, a tacky tortoiseshell pattern that swam in front of his eyes. Ramsay didn’t make a move, just watched. He chewed his lip silently as he waited. The knife flickered open - magic tricks for the slow witted. For a second the room was reflected in the blade, open eyes and gnawing teeth. He held it out, handle towards Ramsay, his eyes trying to convey need and lust and desperation. He didn’t need to try hard, it filled his head with it’s conflictions. _Please, don’t make me say it._ Words were not his friend. 

 

Ramsay took the knife, what else could he do with such a simple offering. He looked at it, the blade, the handle in his hands felt heavy - full of choice. He let his fingers run over it. 

 

“You want this.” It wasn’t a question, but he felt like nodding his head anyway. Yes. He wanted this. He was sick and ashamed and terrified and his knees felt like rubber under his body and his cock quivered and his mouth filled with saliva and screams. It had been far too long. Hours in the bathroom hadn't weakened his cravings. He wouldn't touch himself without his master allowing him. He needed this.

 

Then the knife was being thrust back at him, handle first once again and he took it because he never refused anything anymore. His throat felt raw. His mind was blank. And emptiness took a hold of him and couldn’t let go. Denial. Refusal. Rejection.   


 

“Cut yourself.” His fingers trembled around the handle and somewhere he knew he was lost. Somewhere else he wished this was the pink knife, the one with  the matte finish that Ramsay used frequently, the one that shone with red when they were done. The pink one had been in his mouth, he had to clean it after use of course. The pink one had been all over him. The pink one was sharp and deadly. The pink one tasted like his body and smelled like Ramsay. He wished he had the pink one. He found words.   


 

“Where?” It tasted like arsenic inside his mouth.   


 

“Your leg.”  


 

Without question, without letting his eyes blink again he sat down, bringing his right foot to his left knee and dragged the blade gently across his ankle. He let it slip into the layer of skin that barely feels, he cut away a line into the dead cells of his leg. The line turning an angry red, but no blood. He stopped and looked up, the knife an offering again in his hand. Again it was refused.   


 

“Your chest.” 

 

Again, feeling the thrill of his own pulse he turned the knife on himself, tugging it lightly across his chest. The red line formed, a drop of blood decided to make a lazy trail down to his stomach. When he was done he offered the knife again. _It only works when you do it. When I do it I don't feel anything._ His mind spoke. His mouth stayed silent. Ramsay took the blade into his hand.  

 

“What do you want?” This time Reek had words. His mouth formed vowels and consonants. Spilled them out. He had always been ashamed of speaking, afraid of the dirty talk of what he wanted. He was ashamed of what he wanted. Faced with the unspoken threat of denial he found he could talk once again.  


 

“Cut me. Pl-please.” Ramsay started on his leg, a gently swipe that barely left a mark. A precursor. A tease. 

 

“A-and f-f-fuck me. Please” The words tumbled out and he was turned around on his knees,open and exposed and waiting because just the damn noise of the blade opening was enough to make him throbbing and sore, with his cock ignored between his thighs as he waited. There it was again, teasing and tormenting. Gentle touches, the soft whisper of a blade and when he was fucked it was soft and slow. He couldn’t scream or cry out. It was too easy. He lifted his face from the carpet. It was all a test as Ramsay inched into him, softer than he ever had before.   


 

“H-harder” He whimpered from his place on the floor.   


 

“Louder.” To say it is to admit defeat but he can not stand this. He can’t take the slow motions, the easy softness inside him, the pounding of his head and the throbbing between his legs. He can’t take it. He’s screaming without making a sound.He needs more.   


 

“Harder.” It’s the one of the first things he’s said in months without stumbling through it, stammering or stuttering or grasping mentally at straws that won’t work. When he says it he means it. He’ll scream it, but he doesn’t have to. Ramsay understands. Has understood since he was given the knife. Understood since he saw Theon on the floor of the bathroom, cold and naked and desperate for Ramsay to fuck him until he can't breath.   


 

So he fucks his pet, hard and fast, tugging at his hair and pulling his head into unnatural broken looking angles. Reek, he’s screaming. He can’t breath and it feels like his back has been snapped like a taut rubber band. When the knife meets his skin, for real this time - slicing an easy X into his upper thigh, when blood swells, his eyes roll in the back of his head. He’s nearly there, and he can feel his muscle in his leg twitching, telling him it’s too much, too deep but he’s gone and his body can fuck itself.

 

He’s sobbing and begging for more and right before Ramsay comes he does one good thing for his pet, one long slow slice down his back. The knife slamming against the protrusions of his spine. Speed bumps. It’s enough and Reek comes, moaning and begging and hating himself so badly with tears burning on his cheeks and wanting to do it all over again. 

 

"Was that good, pet?" 

 

Theon, once again can only nod, even as Ramsay scoops him up effortlessly into his thick arms and sets him on the bed. His fingers gently touch the wounds, fresh and deep. 

 

"Did I go too deep?" Theon's head shakes from side to side. Ramsay stands, walking into the bathroom to get a cool washcloth to clean his pet up. It wouldn't do to damage him forever, no need for infections or amputations. 

 

"No, you were perfect." Comes his reply from his place on the bed, "It was all perfect. Thank you." He manages, sighing his contentment, his heart returning to it's soft fluttering like butterfly wings inside his chest. 

 

 


	23. 23. Caged In {Sansa X Ramsay }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> death. dogs. true love lives on in nightmares.

It’s too silent, far too silent. The air is cold and still and there is nothing in the world that Ramsay would like better than to know where he is. He can’t breath, his nose feels collapsed in on itself and he can only push the air in and out through his broken mouth. Teeth rattle loudly in his mouth. Every sucking gasp he takes feels like it is taking more and more out of him. His lungs are deflating inside his chest. He is becoming as flat as a board.   


 

He’s alone. He’s going to die here, just like this. Not a real death in battle with an arrow through his chest or a sword through his throat. This nasal rasp that whistles out of his face in the darkness is the only thing he’ll hear while he struggles in his last seconds. He imagines holding his breath to make it go faster and finds his lungs burning inside his chest so terribly he can't manage. He rattles again.   


 

When he hears footsteps he realizes he’s got some kind of blind over his eyes. It’s not just the pitch black room, instead it’s a cloth, damp with his sweat and blood blocking his vision. He wants to ask who’s there, wants to sound brave and determined, but he can’t seem to muster the strength for one final show. He stays silent and hopes that will convey his message instead.   


 

“I’m here, husband. My love. It’s me.” _Sansa_ , he thinks bitterly. Her voice is thick with emotion, he can hear tears and he’s not so daft to assume they are for him. The footsteps near him in his darkness, get closer and closer and he braces himself, one more slap, one more kick. It won’t matter soon enough. The air is thinner around him, his lips open and shut and he only tastes his own blood. He doesn't speak, doesn't allow himself any words to mock. _Let it be over_ , he prays. Maybe later he can entice her to killing him with a knife so at least he won't have to sit here for so long and suffer.   


 

Instead, he’s surprised. He feels fingers, soft and feather light against his neck, his face, gently pushing the hair out of his face. The thin digits trail across his cheek. Next he feels lips in the same place, planting a soft kiss. He can feel her wet face bury itself into the space between his neck and shoulder. She sobs against him.   


 

“What are you doing?” Of all the games in the world this is one he hasn’t played. He killed her brother, tried to kill her bastard brother, tried to kill her. 

 

“I can’t, I just...I can’t leave you here like this. I need to get you to a maester. “ Ramsay doesn’t ask why because no answer will make sense. He doesn’t have any remorse for anything he’s done, doesn’t feel guilt or shame. All he feels is a lingering sense of confusion that filters through his mind like sunlight through a window. Women are slow and sentimental. Women don’t understand. Sansa was never cut out of the same Stark material as the others. Ramsay thinks, allowing the new thoughts to soak up the spaces in his mind while his stomach churns angrily. He sucks in another gasp, the blood is thickening inside him, filling the empty holes in his gums and dripping down the back of his throat.   


 

“Ramsay, what you did...it’s terrible, but to leave you here like this - I can’t. Get up. Please, Ramsay. Please.” She uses his name so sweetly as if she always has. As if this isn’t the first time she’s done anything but spit it out like a curse. It’s a trick, Ramsay almost thinks, but then her fingers are on the chains on his ankles and his feet are free. He tests one foot at a time and finds he can move them.   


 

“We need to find the key for your arms, you need to come with me.” Her hands are pulling at him, standing him up. The blood seeps from his head leaving him in the dark, dizzy and cold everywhere. Her voice sounds far away as she pleads with him. 

 

“Ramsay hurry before Jon finds you. He’ll kill you if he knows I want to help you.”  She is far away, he thinks, she’s ahead of him, directing him with her voice. He plants one foot in front of the next, forward again and again the need to live stronger than the promising of a trap. 

 

When any animal loses enough blood the mind stops functioning, it only thinks of survival. When Ramsay’s face meets cold metal bars he shouldn’t be shocked. He should have known better, should have understood the game. He should have thought of leading Theon out into the forest only to lead him back to the cross. Remove the binds only to lead him deeper into trouble. He doesn’t think that though, instead  he's knocked back a step and he thinks he’s been turned around. So he turns on his heels and struggles with his hands behind his back to press another way. 

 

More metal. Every way he turns it seems like metal bars. Only one way seems open, and even that ends eventually after a few short steps, if he were to get on his knees he’d find a tunnel, and hear a noise coming from it. Instead he stands and sways in place - confused. 

 

“Here, husband. Closer.” Sansa’s voice ringing out in the dark and he steps forward towards it - instinct ever fighting the knowledge he refuses to accept.  The blind is removed with Sansa's hands pushed through the bars and he sees, blinking away blood from his eyes that she’s on the other side of the bars now, all the gates are locked. He’s caged in. She's led him into a cage, locked him inside. He turns and notes the small tunnel, and yes the noise is barking, running, yapping and growling.   


 

He can hear the dogs howling far away, but they are getting closer every second.

 

“Husband, my love, I couldn’t leave you there to suffer and die slowly. I just couldn’t, not when the poor dogs are so terribly hungry.” Sansa’s smile is a wicked thing in the dim light as they both hear dogs racing through the tunnels. Her eyes are red and puffy, but Ramsay is not so daft to think any of those tears are for him. She's played te game well. Soon they’ll be in the same cage, his dogs and him. Soon Ramsay will be gone and all that will be left are mutts with dirty white bones. Sansa promises her husband that she won’t look away this time. 


	24. 24. Reflex  {Damon/Theon}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> these two always end up in the bathroom don't they? according to google docs I started this in 2015. 'bout damn time it saw the light of day. just so you know, this one is a lil' icky. sorry in advance if you're not into that sort of thing. sorta rape. intoxication. dirty bathrooms. dirty thoughts. vomit. proceed with caution.

 

“This one is for all the happy couples.” A heartbeat passed. “Or the unhappy ones, all the couples should just get out and show their love for the happy bride and groom.” A collective laugh went up around the tight room. Somehow, Theon thought it was both too bright and too dark at the same time. Which was strange. The strobe lights gave him a headache. Maybe it was the martinis. He sucked on the sour olives speared on plastic swords and watched the couples make the slow funeral crawl around the dance floor.

 

There were the stars of the hour, Robb and Jeyne. Wrapped up in each other and uncaring, smothering each other with their love as if it were some kind of thick pillow that could descent from the ceiling and wipe out life as they knew it. She was beautiful in her snow white silk, thousands of gems twinkling and catching the glow from the lights above. She looked ethereal. Just thinking that word made Theon suck down his drink faster. It was nauseating, or maybe that was just bottom shelf vodka sitting inside his stomach. He pulled out his phone and shot a quick text to his sister as a waitress came around and give him another glass. Three more olives speared down. 

 

_ All weddings should have an open bar. :) _

 

He sent, then went back to observation. On the floor were the typicals.  Ramsay tugging around a corpsy looking Jeyne of his own, sporting yellowing bruises just below the hem of her skirt. She tugged nervously at her sweater and looked at the floor the whole time they danced. Maybe she was wishing for a sinkhole to open and devour the room. Theon felt he could toast to that and raised his glass before forgetting it was all in his head. Roose, Ramsay’s father pulled around a woman half his age and three times his weight in a tacky looking mumu. Her flip flops kept getting stuck to the sticky floor and caused their dance to be the most ungraceful even despite - or perhaps because of  Roose’s natural air of arrogance. Some of the younger Freys danced with siblings, Edmure, Robb’s uncle spun a beautiful young woman around on the edge of the floor. The ones in love stayed in love, every one else performed the obligations necessary to please the newlyweds.   


 

What was more telling were the people not on the floor, the ones who still sat at the tables - eyeing the happiness of others with grave suspicion.   


 

There at the head table sat Catelyn Stark. Her hair gone grey and limp. Her husband had died a few months passed, a terrible work accident. Shot between the eyes in the line of duty. Theon recalls hearing a rumor that if you look hard enough you'll see bits of his brain still embedded in the brick wall of the church-turned-crack house down in King's Landing.  She still wasn’t over the loss. She never would be, Theon thought, pitying her and in awe of her. He would never feel that way about somebody. Never feel the urge to surrender his own life because somebody else had died. He wondered how it felt to give into somebody so completely. His alcohol turned sour inside his throat. Pity weighed far greater than awe.   


 

Next to her was Sansa, her eldest daughter. Red haired and absolutely beautiful sitting ram rod straight in her own chair and sipping a pink drink that Theon thought had to be cranberry and  vodka. Nothing was that red but cranberry juice. And what could you mix with cranberry but vodka. Next to her was a blonde boy, a few years older than her but with a death grip on her arm. His mouth was open to laugh, but his eyes were dead. Brandon and Rickon sat down the table. Bran in a daydream and Rickon, still so little playing something on his mother’s iPad. What a sad group of people, all so filled with sorrow they couldn't even enjoy life for a second without feeling guilty.   


 

Somewhere across the room Jon Snow sat in his military suit - badges sewn onto his chest. He looked so serious. When Rob would toss his half brother a glance Jon would smile, but it would fall soon enough and Theon knew that if Catelyn would talk to him they would get on majestically. His wife died during a firefight. Rumor had it that at some point she had crossed ranks, had gone back to her homeland to fight with her own country and things ended…poorly. Theon struggled to keep his laugh inside his throat while he thought how he knew every damn rumor from here to Dorne and back. He dazed in and out and observed the slow trudging to a piss poor cover of _Can't Help Falling In Love With You._  


 

Theon just sat and watched, his eyes blurry with alcohol as the couples flopped around like dying fish. If he ever got married he’d have to be carried to the altar and shackled there. He pricked his lip with the neon orange plastic sword skewering the olives he was trying to suck down when he decided he needed to piss. Standing up he thought suddenly  _ I’m plastered. _ A sobering thought that didn’t work. Instead he knocked his chair into the table, knocking over somebody’s water onto a chair besides his. He watching the puddle form without emotion.   


 

He closed his eyes for a moment hoping to steady himself for his trek to the men’s room. Instead the world spun faster than a roller coaster and he wished for a parametric to come and take him away. When he opened his eyes both his hands were clutching backs of occupied chairs.  With slurred sorrys he finally looped around the crowded dance floor and into the bathroom. He tried to unzip his fly four times before he realized he was grasping at the button to his pants and not the zipper. He collapsed against the stall door in hysterics. 

 

_ I’m bloody gone. _

 

“What’s so funny?” The stall opened against his weight and here came - somebody. A name swam in the depths of his murky mind. Donald. No. Nobody was named Donald anymore. Donald Duck maybe. He had to lean against the urinal to hold himself up and even then found himself collapsing into a messy drunk pile on the floor. Day old piss splattered and missing it's target soaked into his pants. He wanted to stand but found his legs had become 1970s jello casseroles instead of meat and bone.   


 

"What's your name?" Theon slurred. The man answered but it sounded like a cell phone in a dark tunnel and he decided that Donald Duck would have to do. He was sure it was something with a D and he was even more certain that he'd seen this big bulking figure around with Ramsay. Sober he did not want to fuck with that man or his group of friends, but drunk and letting strangers urine soak into his clothes he wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.  Maybe some help to his feet would be nice. Instead of a helping hand, Donald opened his mouth. The next words from the man's mouth were far more clear. 

 

"You're Robb Stark's whore aren't you?" He nearly roared. In reality the words were normal, but to Theon's disturbed equilibrium they were announcements over a loudspeaker. He struggled to his knees, sliding on the tiles and goddamn it who the hell was the help around here? Who would let a bathroom get this filthy at a wedding. 

 

"Shhhh, shhhhh." He put a finger to his lips. "No, me and Robb, we don't - " He tried but it all ran together, the sentence never ending or beginning quite right. "Don't tell anyone. It's his day." He struggled, and at least this Donald caught onto. 

 

"Ohhhh what? Wifey doesn't know?" The bigger man stood over him, his suit pants threadbare and second hand. They were overly creased and there was a dark red stain besides one of the pocket. Theon again tried to get up - this time he was pushed down. The hands were on his shoulders pressing him down onto the ground. "Not so fast, lover boy." The voice boomed above him, an angry god looking for repentance. 

 

"Oh god, please. Lemme go." Theon struggled, he moved his hands in wide circles trying to break the connection. It didn't work. 

 

"What would you do so that everyone out there doesn't have to know you sucked Robb Stark's cock?" D-  something worked his fingers into the pressure points of Theon's shoulders. He jabbed fingertips into the space between his collar bones and even through the suit he felt bruises forming. This was far more sobering than half muttered thoughts as he walked across the dance floor earlier. Still with his mind clearing by the second his body didn't seem to get the memo, instead refusing to cooperate further. Frustration washed over him in waves. 

 

"Please, just. I want to go back to my table. I'm sorry." His buttons flopped open, the name hitting him like a brick to the mouth. This was Damon. As in almost Damien. As in child of the devil. Kind of like demon. His name was a big red flag all on it's own. It was a far cry from a pantless cartoon duck.

 

"Sure you do, but how about I just let wifey out there know about you and Robb? Or I mean, maybe you can convince me to keep quiet." His fingers found his own buttons, the suit pants unzipped in record time. Of course he was hard. His cock springing to life under his well worn underwear. He didn't even tug his pants down, just left them open around his hips. "Wanna be a whore, well act like one." 

 

To be fair Theon had no idea where this had even come from. He'd been drunk, never actually done anything to Damon and had no idea how he had this kind of knowledge. If anything it solidified the fact inside his still twisting mind that the Boltons were very dangerous people. 

 

"If you don't open that god damn mouth of yours I can think of some worse things I can do to you than just spread some rumors." He removed his hands from his cock for a second to pop each and every knuckle on his hands, the bulbous joints grinding against each other. _I can do this._ Theon thought. He opened his mouth.  His phone vibrated in his pocket and Damon's fingers wrapped around the back of his head. He had a tight hold and pulled him forward. 

 

His cock was bigger than Theon though, clearly with his depth perception still as fucked as he was. Already he was gagging, tasting the burn of alcohol inside his esophagus, promising to spill out if he gave it a chance to.  Damon forced himself in further. Theon felt the tip of his dick bumping without much rhythm against the back of his throat, a fat slick worm trying to bury itself down him like a tunnel.  He shut his eyes and they still filled with tears as he choked. It was less from the fear and more from the discomfort, more from his inability to breath, more from his mind attempting to detach itself from the situation. His conscience threatened to pull the ripcord of his sanity. His own pants were soaked through and again he wondered if there was any housekeeping in this whole damn building. 

 

He felt disgusting but even that was overwhelmed when Damon started fucking his face in earnest. The horror of being caught, the promise of violence for a lack of cooperation, it all flew out the window when his nose pressed against Damon's curly, sweat drenched pubic hair. Dark and wild it welcomed his face into its jungle and air was gone with his erratic pumping. Whatever Damon was saying, praises or threats he didn't care, couldn't hear it anymore. He tried to catch air through his open mouth but found no relieve from the awful burn inside his body. He pulled his hands up, pressing his palms against the thighs in front of him. He batted at kneecaps without luck. He only wanted one second, that was it. He would keep going if he could just take one second. Instead Damon ignored him, his fingers like flies for all the good it did. 

 

It was coming if he wanted it or not, and so was Damon. Time was slowed, he could hear cheering outside the doors, music still playing over the loudspeakers as he gagged one last time. 

 

Vomit, a steady thick stream milky white with a bloody red tinge erupting from his lips and around the offending cock inside his mouth. Some of it had to be cum with Damon clenching his face between his hands like a vice. He ground his hips into Theon's face, riding the waves of his orgasm wordlessly as Theon felt the syrupy regurgitated fluids leaking from his mouth, filling his nose with a foul scent. His throat was raw as the free drinks found a home back inside his mouth. Everything tasted worse the second time around. He spread his legs wide hoping the puke would miss his already ruined pants. 

 

Damon was finished before Theon was, still gagging on his hands and knees in front of the urinals. As disheveled Theon felt he knew he looked worse, dry heaving with the contents of his stomach long since gone onto the floor. He was alone in the bathroom before he knew what happened. He struggled to his feet, adjusted himself in the mirror. His pants were a ruin, the backs of them stained and entirely disgusting. He washed them as best he could in the sink. They smelled like cheap hand soap, but it was better than smelling like piss. He ran his fingers through his hair. He could almost pass for a man who had simply drunkenly slipping in the bathroom. 

 

He could use another drink. 

 


	25. 25. Don't Breath {Roose/Reader}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> never done this before, self indulgent insert yourself fic. drugs, sort of noncon. fingering and choking and breaking bones. all the goodies. if you like let me know. kinda wanna keep this one up.

 

You never fully believed in the idea of Stockholm Syndrome until you met Roose Bolton. Then the idea won’t leave your head. He, much like the intrusive thought itself, flutters around banging into the inside of your skull like a particularly annoying insect. It just won't quit.   


 

His stare forces you into feeling inches tall, and he does it well, his dead blue eyes boring into you like you’re not even there. You’ll never be fully sure if he even likes you. Most of you is just waiting for him to kill you, at least you assume that’s the end game. There’s no other resolution to this. No imagined happy turn out. Just pain and wanting and dry merciless fucking until you don't wake up anymore.   


 

The first night you met him was under a blinking neon light, gas prices that seemed unfair. You traded him money for meth. He touched your hand for a little too long and you thought about it all night - riding your high and wondering what his cold hands felt like in other places. You dipped your fingers in icy water and let them stray into your underwear and it didn’t matter that your best friend was passed out next to you on the queen size you two had rented at a cheap motel. The stains on the carpet and the ringing in your head didn't amount to much. Nothing mattered and you tore the orgasms from your body like you were owed a debt. 

 

You didn’t even really like him. 

 

Mostly other people did his dealing for him, but every now and again you met him, bumped into him and the demands changed each time. He seemed, overall sexless. Barely attractive or attracted. He was just around with his flat tone of voice and his clipped clean nails. He was just Roose. Just the drug dealer who ran the town. Just a man more than twice your age, he could be your father. Maybe he was.   


 

And it didn’t stop you at all. 

 

The fourth time you meet Roose is behind a bar, it’s almost two in the morning and you’re coming off a rough weekend. You’ve only eaten once but you’ve kept hydrated through the empty Smirnoff bottles that are rolling around in the backseat of your car. It sickening how the lines on the road look under your headlights and you’re thankful in such a small town that the police go off shift at midnight. 

 

He’s wearing denim and flannel and it seems out of place. You can't remember what he's ever worn before and this fits the time and place but not the man. Music thumps through the thin walls. It's country - the only thing most people around here listen to. Wind blows your hair around your face and it doesn’t fully feel like a part of you. He says something soft and smothered in cotton and it seems like a promise of something better. So you get into his car. You won't touch him until you have to. He thinks likewise.   


 

You think he would have a house and you are sure he does but instead he takes you to a trailer down by the banks of the River that cuts through your shit stain of a town. It’s been two solid days and your eyes itch from the lack of adrenaline and heroin and methamphetamine running through your body so you let him take you inside. He still doesn't touch you. You don't move so much as a finger towards his direction.   


 

You have no idea what he sees in you but he sees something and if it’s opportunity or free labor or terrible sex he draws up something thick and transparent in a syringe and it’s the clearest memory you can form of that entire week. The way it looked bubbling up. The smell - cooking bubble gum.   


 

He asks if you trust him and you nod, maybe too much because he lets you have it - right in your neck. You can feel the needle pierce the skin, feel the plunger pushing whatever it is into you and you honestly don’t care. That’s what you do. You float through life and allow things to happen. It’s cool, it’s all good because it feels like liquid lightning. It feels good.   


 

You’ve never been this far gone and all of your body feels the effects. You haven’t a high like this since the first time, been chasing it since day one before the start of high school and it’s beautiful and euphoric. Every nerve is on fire and he touches you - god does he touch you. 

 

It’s like a fever dream that you’ve only see through heavy lidded eyes. You don’t know when you wanted him to fuck you but he seems to want the same thing. His fingers are just a cold as you thought they would be and when they touch your face you feel alive for the first time in so long. He brushes them against your cheek. Things turn fuzzy.   


 

You stopped wearing a bra months ago, the feeling of the clasp on your back is so small to most people, but to you it was an invasion. Somehow you end up in his shirt, red checkers covering you but barely and your legs spread wide. He palms your body like it's a trophy, trailing down your chest and letting his iced digits touch your nipples, your navel. They settle somewhere much lower.   


 

All you want is him to fuck you but he stares at you instead and he never ever kisses you. His fingers scissor open inside of you and you try not to cry, you're not sure why. It feels good, but something about it feels detached and fuck me sideways if you’re not the pot calling the kettle black on being detached. You’ve lived the last twenty four hours almost out of body and here you are with tears springing to life for no reason. 

 

You swallow it down when another wave of whatever the fuck he shot into you flows through your body, and everything feels good. Everything, even the rubbing of the thick shag carpet on the back of your legs. You’re wet, wetter than before and he looks almost disgusted but also a little satisfied. It’s an odd combo you’ll learn fits his face frequently. He pulls out his fingers and you hiss - the removal too fast and leaving your burning skin empty. 

 

Then he’s fucking you. It’s such a quick transition you don’t know where you’ve lost the moments in between too. You wrap your thin legs around his back and let him fuck you, hard and fast enough to make you alternate between begging for more and pleading for him to stop. He finds the angle where he can bottom out, filling you to the point of near pain and begins to pick up his pace. It’s rapid and harder, his fingers are holding your thighs apart and you don’t remember when you started trying to close them. 

 

It hurts. Hurts with a capital fucking H. Something inside you knows it’s painful but your body doesn’t seem to get the memo and jerks itself back, impaling yourself on his cock and letting him continue his ruthless assault. 

 

At some point you come and it’s messy and all over his pants and he hits you. It’s a full on punch to the face. You shudder and shiver and can’t seem to catch your breath because he’s got his hands wrapped around your neck. The pressure on your chest from him angling himself over you is enormous. Somewhere in the woods outside the door something cracks. He looks bored and your vision swims. You don’t know why but you come again while you swallow the blood in your mouth and keep your eyes on his empty ones. 

 

You faintly think that you’re going to die and you’re not sure why you aren't fighting him but you’re just laying there on the floor using the last seconds of your life to tug the orgasm from your body as you grind against his cock. His hips against yours feels like the only thing left on this earth. 

 

He doesn’t let you go until he’s filling your burning cunt to the brim with his come. He looks the same when he comes as when he buttons his jacket or hits you in the stomach afterwards. Emotionless. Tired. Bored. He's not even sweating even when you are. You pant on the ground and look at him, tall and godlike over you.    


 

You wonder what make him so bland. 

 

You’re alive, but barely. When he finally pulls out you shut your eyes and finally sleep. 

 

You’re surprised to wake up. Most days it’s a surprise. It’s why they call today the present, little gifts all the time. Sadly every time you try to inhale your whole body rattles and the cracking that was outside of the trailer last night is actually inside your body. The carpet is rough and you're coming down and miserable. Almost upset your still around to push through, but you do because you don’t know what else is left to do otherwise. Because you've never learned any better and you don't know how to give up.    


 

You manage to find the main road and head back to the bar. It's a shorter distance than what you thought and you only almost get hit by speeding cars five or six times. One of the guys you sometimes fuck is a vet, and you drive to his clinic asking at the front desk to see him by name. You get halfway into your demand before you realize your flannel shirt which is just Roose's shirt is flapping open, all sorts of damage exposed to your body. You shut it, vaguely aware of the concept of shame and when Ben comes out and sees you standing there he takes you back into a room. 

 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He asks, and you request an Xray, your voice doesn’t belong to you. Its hoarse and raw but you don't really feel it. All you care about now is the feeling inside your chest.   


 

He informs you, as you lay nude on the cold metal table they use for large house pets - that you have a broken sternum. A bone you never even knew you had. Best to keep away from any more blunt force trauma to the chest. He tells you from far away that it mostly happens during car accidents and he’s asking if you’re okay. 

 

You blow him for payment and leave through the backdoor.  Every inhale is worse than the last and you know you’re going to die. But you don’t. You go to your apartment and lay on your couch and let your roommates wonder if you’ve finally ODed for good. 

 

Two nights later you find Roose at the state park and ask him for more. He takes you back to the trailer without question. 

 

 

 


	26. 26. Squelch {Ramsay/Reader}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> follow up to last chapter. PWP. drugs, blood, choking, hitting, chains and rough sex. slight daddy kink. Did I ever tell you southern Rams is my favorite? One day I'll make a whole long story.

 

Time doesn’t pass normally when you’re in the trailer, and the past few days have been no exception. Maybe it isn’t days, maybe it is weeks, months, years. Maybe its only seconds.   


 

He chained you up, not to a bed, but instead to the trailer itself. You will never understand why, and you’ve been there without him for such a long time you know somewhere inside your heart that he’s forgotten you entirely. You make your own silent peace with it day by day. Like everything else in life since you stumbled down the "wrong road" it's easier to accept than you thought it would be.   


 

The chain around your ankle allows you access to the entire space, and he at least left with you with some pot in the bedroom, some coke in the cookie jar. After you came down from your first high you tore the place apart like a mad man until you found every inch of illegal substance in the place. A stockpile for a few days.   


 

The chain bothered you but you never even bothered to check the door until you rolled yourself a joint to calm down. 

 

Then you found out the door was locked. 

 

There was food and alcohol and running water and always the promise of wasting away to death. It didn’t seem so bad so long as you had your fix. There were worse ways to go, of course. With your eyes so rheumy and red you would think yourself lucky to wither away in such comforts.   


 

It was running out though. Without Roose you were sure you’d die. Even with him you were still sure. It didn’t bother you really, just was something you accepted. 

 

Since you met him forever ago the few people you’d known had slowly dropped from your life. Your bruises and bite marks and blown pupils were like holding up a sign for some reason and even the other trashy shit heads who would suck anyone off for a line would ignore you. Roose was off limits to most. Roose was the one thing most would never sink to.   


 

You just didn’t know better. 

 

That was a bold faced lie, though. You knew better the whole time, you just didn’t care. 

 

And even that was a lie. You cared just enough to get off on it. 

 

When the door slams open, swinging backwards on itself you are surprised from the normal place you hide - under the pull out table. Roose, you think, allowing yourself a half second of wild hearted hope as you scramble out on your knees but you're met with somebody else. 

 

Ramsay is built, tall as a telephone pole and wide as a Ford. You know it’s him because you’ve heard about Roose’s only remaining son who is as fucked as they come. You know it’s him because of his eyes, they’re Roose’s but set in a different face. His hair is long and wild and you can see the knots from here, large black bumps in an unruly mane. He makes you stop and get frozen in time. The line of his jaw and his crooked nose and thick fingers. You don't think full thoughts, just short pieces of him fill your brain with knew knowledge.   


 

He’s here to kill you, for sure. Maybe Roose got too attached and couldn’t do it himself, but you know he’s here for you. Part of you wants to crawl back under the table, part of you wants to try to run while the door is still open and you can see the outline of the shit colored river behind his massive shoulders. 

 

Instead you just sort of sit there, your whole body jerks without the hits it needs, or the food. Whichever. 

 

“Princess, come here,” He has the kind of drawl that means he’s not exactly from around here and his mother had to be from the deep south. It sounds like a whole different language on his tongue. His pants have blood stains and not all of them are old. He shuts the door behind him with his foot without taking his eyes off you. You end up crawling to him.  


 

“You’re b-e-a-u-tiful.” He says it like the Jim Carey movie did and you smile, mostly because of the memory and partially because nobody has called you beautiful in so long. It might be because of the scabs and scars on your face. It is for sure a big part of it. He takes your chin between his thick fingers and tilts your face up to look at him. You comply easily.  He's got you and you know it.   


 

“Very nice,” He tugs you to your feet and turns you around. Your ankle gets caught in the chain and you trip, sprawling out on the floor. He is down, crouching  on your level before you even know what’s going on. “Very nice,” he repeats, touching you. His fingertips ghosts over your calves.   


 

He’s so fucking warm you want to rip off all your clothes. His touch is fire, and even with the air in the trailer somewhat cool it’s getting stuffy with him just being around. His fingers outline your thigh, the slight curve of your ass, your hips. 

 

“I’d make you my wife, baby girl. I would. You look like a good little Susie home-maker.” He purrs, and his voice is so thick with wanting that it’s infectious. You want to go home with him, you want to make him dinner and rub his feet and suck his cock and have his children. You want to do his laundry and clean the bloodstains off his white collared shirts and untangle the knots from his hair.   


 

You were never really this horny prior to meeting the fucking Boltons, but something about them and their aphrodisiac laced LSD makes your pussy wet at the slightest instance. For what it’s worth you haven’t said a single word yet. You’re trying to put together some meaningful last speech but it shatters in your head into a million pieces when you hear his next words. 

 

“Daddy said you might want some of this.” Your neck nearly snaps as you spring up and watch him pull a syringe from his coat pocket. It’s the same clear liquid that got you hooked, got you stuck here. Every time Roose shot you up it was as good as the last time and you have no doubts that tonight will be the same.  


 

Somewhere you feel a twitch of genuine lust for the way such an intimidating man can call anyone daddy. You roll onto your back and look up at him with your best seductress face. 

 

“Daddy said you were out of bounds. I can’t touch you. But you don’t want that do you, honey?” 

 

With one hand on the plunger he runs his other palm flatly over your body. You're only in your underwear and a t-shirt. It’s thin enough he can see the outline of your chest. His fingers don’t have the same feel as Roose. You have goosebumps on every inch of free skin.   


 

“Now, princess, if I give you this you gotta let me have some fun. Only fair I think.” He rolls his vowels, he almost shortens every word. Now sounds like Na. Princess sounds like Prints -ess. His voice is so much more than Roose’s. He’s the kind of dangerous guy you’d chase in high school. He has to be younger than you, he’s probably just gotten out of high school himself. 

 

He waves the needle around in the air like a weapon. 

 

“Where do you want this, baby girl?” 

 

You point to your neck, it seems like tradition at this point to keep it shot directly into your head and your heart. You move down, your crotch resting against his crouching legs. You grind yourself against his boot, and it feels heavenly and slightly sinful. Shame doesn’t come  naturally to you and when he laughs and presses his steel toe into your covered cunt you pant. 

 

“Patience, little girl.” He sticks the needle in like he’s never done it before, and he probably hasn’t. He seems like he’s a clean kind of guy. Maybe smokes a little weed now and again, but it’s a bad habit to dip into your own supply. 

 

When it hits you all you want is him on top of you. Everything is overstimulation and when he grinds his foot against you it takes a lot of work not to come then and there. You beg and plead and whimper and he ignores all your mindless sobs for more.   


 

“Princess, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret,” he says, pushing your legs away and settling between them. “I’m not a very nice guy.” He smiles. You smile back like the dumb docile doe you've become to these for real murderers. 

 

You never really liked nice guys. 

 

You lean into his touch and it’s so nice that when he hits you, full across the face it would be incorrect to say it felt bad. It didn’t - per say. Maybe you’re just getting used to things, maybe you're just waiting for the other shoe to drop but you expect it somewhere and he actually fucking  _ moans .  _

 

You spread your legs further and, unlike his father, he strips his shirt off in a smooth gesture. His chest is a patchwork of old scars and faded tattoos and his muscles ripple like an ocean when he moves. He rips the zipper of his pants down and tears off his belt. Everything is violent. Every gesture deadly.   


 

You think he’s gonna tie your hands up so you put them above your head but you find baby Bolton gets his kicks like Daddy does and instead he wraps it around your neck, you feel the familiar tightness as he jerks it shut around your windpipe. 

 

It’s something you're use to and with your high every touch is an orgasm, so you don’t fight it and his husky voice fills the room. 

 

“Aw, fuck, baby girl. Aint you just a sight.” His fingers hook on your underwear and pull it down. It doesn’t even feel like he needs to slick himself up you’re so wet and ready and you know one day one of these fuckers is gonna be the death of you. 

 

His cock is different, far thicker if just a little shorter. It stretches you until it burns even through the haze and something about that is nice and reassuring. It makes you remember you’re still alive, still human and something in your snapped mind likes it. 

 

You fuck him, your fingers wrap around his arms and pull yourself up and even as he clinches the belt just a bit tighter you hold onto his back and ride him on the ground like your life depended on it. It might. It doesn’t matter though and you can only get out harsh raspy whispers as your face turns from red to purple. He lets the belt go slack for a minute, then pulls it tight once you get one good deep gasp in. The air, as good as it feels, burns all the way down. 

 

He’s a monster, you think wildly as he fucks you harder. It’s not bad though, you scratch his back and make somebody out there know he’s yours at least for this second. He moans your name, but it’s not exactly the right way to say it, slurred with his thick southern accent. It’s nice. It’s beautiful. It’s something you think you could hear every single night and makes your pussy clench tight around his cock in reflex. He grunts and thrusts harder. Roose aims at icy sex but Ramsay is all about the emotion fueled hurt fuck. His hair is matted to his forehead and his eyes are startling. 

 

The chain around your ankle is cold. It doesn’t compare to the feeling of his knife cutting between your tits, forcing a long red line down your chest. 

 

You hiss and moan and never ever dream of fighting it, unsure where he even pulled a knife from. It’s okay though, this fuck is magnificent with every rock you feel your hips roll against his. Your fingers claw at his back and if you were rational and not fucked out of your mind you would cry and scream and want to leave, but instead you just let him keep pushing into you. If you weren’t so gone on drugs and dick you might get a little nervous when the blood smears between the two of your bodies like war paint. Instead it pushes you on, the tangy smell thick in the air.   


 

You actually cum, on his cock when he licks the line he’s carved into your chest. There’s something about his saliva burning you and his cock burning you and his very presence burning you that makes you come around him. Somewhere in between you've dipped your fingers into the gore and painted your face like an Indian priestess.   


 

You are far too gone to notice when he finishes, You’ve gotta be pregnant by at least one Bolton at this point in time. 

 

Your last thought as you daze off is that he’s going to kill you, while you watch him smile at you with straight white teeth coated in copper. 

 

You are only vaguely surprised when you wake up alone and alive the next morning.  


	27. 27. Gag {Roose/Reader/Ramsay}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the final part (so far) to my Ramsay / You / Roose three part epic. See chapters 25/26 for parts I&2\. blowjobs, noncon, violence, threats of violence, death. I think the Boltons are for sure their own warning. Consider yourself warned.

 

“Open your fuckin’ mouth baby girl.” It’s like a joke, you think. With the gag in keeping your jaw pried wide open you can’t do much else. Ramsay’s eyes are blood red and shot through and you can’t help but assume you’re just as much of a bad influence on him as he is on you.

 

STDs are after all a two way street.

 

He stuffs his cock none too gently down your throat. You can hear the thrumming of his body as the head hits the back of your skull. You tilt your head up, open your esophagus, let him in. The world is all sorts of blurry colors and you wonder if one day the high won’t work, but it’s not a problem for today. He fucks your open mouth slowly, almost like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. He is lazy and slow and he isn't all there. It's okay. Your mind wanders while your body works.

 

You can’t even remember the last time Roose was here. His name and his body are such far aware afterthoughts they barely get you wet anymore. Now it’s all his son, who seems murderous all the time. His hands always hurt you in one way or another but it’s okay because even when everything wears off and you're lying on the ground with nothing in your system but blood and raging hormones you writhe under him. He makes you beg for more and you do, on your hands and knees asking _Daddy please can you fuck me harder?_

 

Once in high school your friend showed you some pictures from a magazine she’d found in her brother’s room. They were the kind of sick photos that upset your stomach, back when all you did was smoke dope, drink wine coolers and occasionally pop pills. You had standards. You had ideals. Inside your head you thought one day you’d get out, find a nice guy, settle down. The pictures didn’t vibe with that. Women tied to poles, bright red strips of skin looking raw across their chests, asses, stomachs. Women with black eyes but pleading for more. You both wondered what could make somebody like that.

 

It was the money, you’d agreed, had to be. The only way you would let somebody hit you was if they were paying you big bucks. Now you let Ramsay shove three fingers, unlubed - mind you, inside your ass just because he wants to. You let him grind his boot into your face and you thank him for it. You eat his ass like it’s a buffet.

 

That’s all besides the point. The point is things have changed and now you are not the same you as you were then and this open mouth gag clanging against your teeth isn’t the worst thing you’ve done in the past week. Hell it’s not the worst thing you’ve done in the past day. You let him fuck your mouth and you do feel something, the way he’s gone and ruined your gag reflex.  The way you don’t flinch when he grabs your hair far too tightly and shoves your face against his skin, nose to groin and you can barely breath but it’s okay. You vaguely feel your cunt twitching, ignored for now.

 

You’ve living on borrowed time. It’ll run out one of these days and if god was fair you’d have a needle stuck somewhere in your body when it happens.

 

Ramsay, the lot you’ve grown to love and worship, is a complete mad man. You had heard rumors. You had only imagined what he would be like and he was in one way or another every dark thought turned human. He liked to hurt everyone and everything. You were a special case. **The** special case. You were Roose’s. Therefore he had to have you, had to fuck you in every way possible. He had to debase you to become less than human. He had to shove his fingers, his tongue, his dick everywhere he could. He had to feel you, every single inch of you inside and out. He had to possess you and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. He was dangerous in the way a feral cat could be. Roose was only a threat if he was backed into a corner, but Ramsay...Ramsay chased you for fun.

 

You can still remember the day he’d come to you with his hands copper covered and sticky. He wanted you to clean him off, with your mouth. You really didn’t have much of a choice. You still seem to taste blood. Ramsay always tastes like blood.

  


You’re so stuck, so caught up breathing in the wet earthy smell of Ramsay, his tan skin the only thing in your vision you never even hear the door open. You don’t even know somebody else is in the room until Ramsay speaks.

 

“Hello, Daddy.” He says, his fingers still clutching your hair, hips still thrusting into your face and for the first time in a long time you feel pure panic inside of you. You want to shut your mouth but can’t and the distraction forces you to pull away. His cock bumps against the back of your mouth again and now that you aren't ready you feel the urge to vomit.  

 

Your throat contracts, spit flies everywhere and he looks down at you. You mumble something incoherent as he forces himself back in with the help of the O ring shoved inside your mouth.

 

“Princess, didn’t I ever tell you not to talk with ya’ mouth full?” He questions, not even missing a beat as he backhands you. He lets out a soft moan when he feels the reverberations from his palm on his erection in your mouth. You're just a human fleshlite some days.

 

“Bastard.” Roose replies, ignoring the scene instead walking around the small trailer. “If you wanted the girl I would have assumed you would have at least had the decency to take her to your house.” Ramsay doesn’t really stop, keeps grinding his crotch into your face as you finally struggle against him.  If nothing else he’s getting off on it.

 

“Ya’ know as well as I do the ol’ ball and chain won’t like that.” He says, spitting on the carpet besides you, by Roose’s feet. His accent gets thicker around his  father, his behavior more dramatic. It's all a big show and you're stuck in the middle.

 

“Well I have no further use for her if she’s already being...well.” Roose speaks and even with your eyes shut tightly you can feel his eyes burning a hole into your back. “May as well end it all now.” He says as if he’s talking about taking a turkey out of the oven, buying a pair of shoes, getting gas in his car. What he’s really talking about is killing you. Even with it nestled inside your mind for so long you’ve lost the true fear, now it’s returned and is full force. It's an ugly feeling and it fills you from head to toes and you want to scream.

 

You beg to please reconsider, as garbled as it comes off but receive another backhand for your troubles. 

 

“Bitches can’t fuckin’ behave around company, huh?” Ramsay asks, finally slowing his thrusts, pulling his cock out of your throat, leaving the wet, swollen tip just resting on the end of your tongue. “Well I guess since she was yours first you may as well have her last.”  He steps away for a second, zipping his fly up and leaving you with drool coating your lips and chin. Tears appear from nowhere, flooding your eyes with the realization that in thirty minutes from now you’ll be at the bottom of the river. It’s lucky Ramsay gagged you, you’d never be able to keep your mouth open without it.

 

You think Roose is above all that, above a final farewell fuck, but you are surprised to see his cock, jutting out at you and pressing itself into your mouth. It’s familiar but distantly so and when it burrows into your throat you again find yourself gagging.  The terror cripples you, Roose seems bored if nothing else.

 

He moves his hips mechanically and he begins to talk to you in that monotone voice that never seems far from your consciousness. Whereas Ramsay’s is thick with his accent and emotion Roose is robotic and cold.  There’s no personalization to it and you aren’t sure if you can accept it as the last thing you hear.

 

“Once I’m ready to cum I’ll slit your throat.” He explains, calmly. It’s like he’s talking to cattle instead of a human between his legs. He brings a knife out from his pocket, flipping the blade open and showing it off to you.  You bring your hands up to his knees and bat at him but it doesn’t work, nothing works. Tears continue to streak down your face. Desperation builds like cancer in all your bones. “It’s the most pleasant for me that way, you see once I slice through the tendons your muscles will contract, it’s all instinct really.” He continues, his hands pushing yours away, his cock slick inside your mouth. “The key is to not cut too deeply, otherwise you risk causing injury to yourself.”

 

You wonder how many people he’s done this too. It makes sense if you think about all the stains on the carpet of the trailer. Time passes in blinks and you decide you want to keep your eyes open and stare at him. You want him to remember you. You want him to know your name. You won’t fight, you won’t struggle, you won’t give him what he wants. The last seconds of your life will be as a disappointment for everyone involved. 

 

You know he’s close because he brings a knife to the tender skin of your neck and he rests it there, not in the teasing way Ramsay does but simply in a matter of fact way. You relax every muscle in your body, determined to not let your body betray you and give him any inch of pleasure.

 

His cock twitches inside your throat and you feel the blade to the side of your pounding pulse and then  -

 

Well then the world gets bright white, blinding light before the darkness overwhelms you. You seem deaf and you can hear nothing but a hum and buzz inside your ear. There’s a heaviness you can’t describe on top of you, and you wonder if this is heaven, hell, or somewhere in between for good girls who got lost. This isn’t exactly what you pictured.

 

Then you hear Ramsay’s voice.

 

“Ay’ and don’t you fuckin’ call me a bastard ever again.” He nearly screams,  might be screaming but your ears ring and ring and ring and then the heaviness moves. “Darlin’ come on out okay?” He says, his hands pulling on your shoulders. This isn’t heaven or hell or somewhere in between.

 

This is the trailer and there is blood all over your back. It’s on the counter behind you, on the wall and the heaviness is Roose’s body pushed off and rolled onto it’s back. The space between his eyes empty, the blue finally deader than dead but to you they look the same. Ramsay helps you to your knees and leaves you there.

 

There’s blood in your mouth, blood in your hair, on your face. Roose’s head is in pieces around the room and Ramsay’s rubbing his Colt 45 on his pants. He places it on the counter top like he doesn't care at all where it is.

 

You can’t breath, the world is dark around the edges and you can’t seem to keep yourself up. He takes your chin gently in between his fingers. He bends down, licks a strip from jaw to eye, taking in the blood and tears and sweat and spit into his mouth and he seems to savor the flavor. He stands as you shake.

 

“Baby girl - I’d never let anyone do a damn thing to you. You're mine, only person can touch you is me. Got it?” You nod your head so quickly it feels like it’ll fly off, but it doesn’t. You don’t feel real, you need a hit of anything. You imagine the supply might be running dry soon as you look one more time at the body on the floor beside you. It’s becoming less and less of Roose and more of just a pile of flesh instead. Just heavy skin. 

 

“Now,” Ramsay says, you hear the familiar sound of a fly unzipping. “Let’s say me and you finish what we started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd that's wrap on my little jump into read/Bolton FF. (For now) I kind of loved writing this. As always comments make me smile for days and days so if you want to leave one with any feedback I would love it. (Also only three more chapters to go!?!? what?!?!?! Holy heck. what a ride, guys)


	28. 28. Transfiguration {Ramsay / Theon / Robb }

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cutting. suicide attempts. abuse. disgusting dirty talk.

 

His fingers touch the raised white tissue on his wrists. He holds his breath when an index finger traces one long line from wrist to elbow. Deep and bright. It won’t be the color of his skin for years yet.It may never turn. It may remain as vibrant as he wishes he could be. He deserves that, a blinding reminder of who he isn't.   


 

Neither said a word, the air stilled until the finger reached the jagged end of the scar. The edges were sloppy, an emergency room visit hastily stitched up. He never remembered much about that night, there were lights - red like the blood pumping out of his veins.There was his own cum splashed across the bathtub - but the blood was pooling around it turning it pink. Disgusting. He was disgusting. He remembered screaming, crying. He was trying to pull his pants up to his waist but his right hand felt detached. He couldn’t get it to work. He remembered hands holding onto his shoulders, bumps on the stretcher. He remembered cursing, a deep voice coming from a mouth he knew was scowling. The voice came from somebody who’s hands were stained with the blood that pooled in the bathroom. 

 

“Bring him back. God damn it. Bring him back to me.” That’s what he knew for sure. He heard those words, even when he wasn’t sure who touched him or where they went or what they did. He would never remember the prick of an IV in his left arm, the unaffected one because he could never cut with his right hand.  He couldn’t remember the person who sewed him back to life. He’d never remember the nurse who checked on him all night, handcuffed to the bed in fear he’d try again. 

 

What they didn’t know was he wasn’t trying anything. Nothing so permanent as death was his goal. Shame and embarrassment burned him alive and he sort of wished nobody found him. Nobody listened though. Nobody cared, but they saw everything. Patches of discolored skin. Burns etched into him like birthmarks. Scars covering more of him than not. They stopped asking after that. He had to have a psychiatric evaluation afterwards, but he’d learned what the right answers were. 

 

_ Do you plan on hurting yourself again? _

 

_ No. Of course not.  _

 

What a pathetic lie, what a terrible side splitting joke. When you live through hell there’s nothing that touches you but pain. It makes things so much more difficult now. He didn't need a spanking he needed a gunshot through his miserable stomach to get him off. But you can't say that. God no. Those were magic words that would take you to a land filled with white pills and crayons because pencils were too sharp.   


 

He came back to Robb. The puddle of his own blood that was on the bathroom floor was gone, just a rusty red stain in the caulk between tiles. Theon just knew Robb would be recaulking that on his next weekend off. One morning he would wake up and find Robb there on his knees in the little bathroom in their apartment, his hair sweaty and plastered to his face as he tried so hard to cover up the newest mistakes Theon made. He would pretend it was something he had been meaning to do for months. Neither of them would mention it.   


 

When the itching in his arm faded to a dull irritation in the back of his mind, when they took the bandage off he had been obsessed. Touching the black strings that held him together. One popped stitch and he’d be dead. Maybe. Maybe not. Was that a risk he wanted to take? They told him to not use his right arm, lift nothing over five pounds, don’t strain. Robb obliged, as if he had always been the only one who carried in grocery bags, or pushed the couch aside when they had to vacuum. Neither of them talked about it and Theon felt a mix of rage and pity and sorrow. a dirty secret found out. Bitter he would sit on the couch without moving and let Robb strain, the veins in his head bulging as he tried to push the furniture with a body on it.   


 

Even now, months after the stitches were removed, after the skin sealed up into an ugly slash across his forearm - Robb was obsessed. Touching it, stroking his arm at night, staring that the white line. The worst was when questions would come. Theon wished they could return to not talking about it, but it was curse.   


 

Theon was still wet from the shower, his head heavy with the warmth from the tight room. A towel wrapped around his waist and damn near every mark visible. Robb sat on the bed, legs crossed reading something his brother loaned him. When Theon came into the room the book was tossed onto the bedside table. And now he was touching  _ the _ _scar_. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“You know why.” He had explained at first. Nothing felt right to him anymore. About how he felt like he was drained. Nothing could crack him but feeling something, anything that hurt just enough. It had to break him. It wasn't normal - he wasn't normal. He was fucked up. He was wired wrong. What started as a papercut he would worry at until the skin split and he would suck on the open area, burning himself with his mouth. His own saliva turning to a toxic ointment to the wound. It had just been another night, he had just wanted to get off and nothing worked but slicing deeper. 

 

He still remembered when he came back to Robb, the first time - before the scar that spanned his arm. He remembered the first time they laid in bed, they hadn’t fucked. That wasn’t the right word. Robb was soft, his fingers touching all the right spots but in all the wrong empty ways. Theon waited for the bite, the bruise, but nothing happened. Robb came, but Theon sat, unfulfilled with his mind rattling in his skull. The first time he left all his clothes on, tugging his pants around his thighs. Stopping wandering hands before the got too far. He was guilty and sick and didn't feel like it was right. He didn't want to hurt but he needed it. _Fucking rape me._  


 

The second time Theon asked  _ harder, faster, rougher _ _._ It fell on deaf ears, when Robb tried it was half an attempt, his eyes full of caution.  _ I can’t actually hurt you. I love you, why would I ever hurt you? _

 

The third time Theon asked if Robb would cut him, he even shoved a steak knife from the kitchen under his pillow - just so they wouldn’t have to ruin the mood looking for something. Ramsay had never had that problem. But Ramsay was gone and with it all the pain. Robb yelled, pulled away, threw on his clothes. They fought. The walls shook around them. Robb left. Theon cut himself that night, not quite so badly, but enough.  Droplets stained the grey sheets on the bed. He panicked and changed them, throwing the bloody ones out. Thinking Robb would be disappointed, he felt weak. He was weak. He got off thinking about how much he ruined his life and sucking his fresh wound, letting his teeth gnaw the fragile skin.   


 

Robb came back the next morning with a bag of bagels. He never noticed the grey flannel sheets were missing. If he did he never mentioned it.  __ I’m not him, I could never hurt you.   
That was when they still weren't talking about things. If something didn't fit perfectly into the puzzle of life together they threw it out.  The house never felt like home, it felt like a soundstage for a sitcom that failed.   


 

“Did you like it? What he did.” He. Robb never said his name, never said anything but  _ he, him, his . _ Ramsay was just a pronoun in the past with a bloody grin and Theon’s sanity. He thought of the way he felt bent over the front porch steps at Ramsay’s father’s house one night, his head banging off the concrete steps in front of him, blood drooling through a crack in his skull, the world on fire. He thought of the way Ramsay would threaten during sex.  _ If you make a sound I swear I’ll slice out your goddamn tongue. If you come before me I’ll castrate you like a fucking bull.  _ He thought of how something worked. It had made him come in a way Robb just couldn’t. Every time he’d been with Ramsay he’d cried. Most of the time he came. He couldn't forget a single whispered word. _Nobody will love you ever again. You can't live without me._ Theon would palm his cock and remember and he'd end up cumming in his pants.   


 

“No. Never. He forced me.” _His_ fingers on the back of his head, pressing his face into _his_ cock while they were driving around during rush hour. Remembered the acidic taste of _his_ come in the back of his throat. _Maybe one day I'll rip your pretty little cock off, give you a cunt to fuck. Wouldn't you like that, baby? Let me eat you out like you want huh?  
_

 

“You’ll never go back. To him.” It wasn’t much of a question, but it was still there, waiting for his agreement. How could he ever go back to the man who had done so much damage. How could he even consider such a thing. He would never tell Robb it had crossed his mind. He could still remember Ramsay’s number. It wouldn’t take much to make a phone call. He wouldn’t tell Robb his fingers hovered over his keyboard at night, writing emails to the man who killed a part of him; emails he would never send - at least not yet. 

 

“Never. I love you. Why would I ever go back to him?” Here’s the part where Robb would let out a soft whoosh of air. He would start breathing again and push himself under the covers, even in the heat of the summer. His fingers would tug at Theon’s wrist, urging him close. Some nights they would have sex. Theon would never, ever call it fucking. Some nights they would just lay in bed, Robb’s arms wrapped around Theon’s shoulders. Sometimes Robb would whisper thoughts into the darkness.  _ We could try to get them covered. We could try some kind of treatment to heal the skin.  _ Theon would nod to please him. 

  
The truth was he didn’t mind his scars, not anymore. He didn’t mind making news ones even when Robb’s nose would turn up when he saw new raw tissue. He didn’t mind looking at the old ones. Didn’t mind how uneven his skin felt. And when Robb’s breathing would slow to an even pace, when the sun would just start to come up Theon would think _ I miss him so fucking much.   
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always comments make me incredibly happy. I wrote bits of this a while ago and finished tonight. Hope you guys enjoy!


	29. 29.Movies {Ramsay/Theon}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SERIOUSLY this is fucked up. Seriously. this. is. fucked. I have one more chapter to go. An aging adult film star, Theon Greyjoy needs cash. Someone online offers, but at what cost? Serious trigger warnings for gore, body trauma, rape, piss, all that stuff.

Theon Greyjoy was good at three things.

 

1\. Fucking.

2\. Sleeping.

3\. Eating.

 

Not always in that order, sometimes sleeping took precedent over fucking, or eating made it’s way to the top. The order changed but those three things he knew in his bones that he could do. It was the only list he was confident in. He was seventeen when he made that list. He felt a sick sort of pride with the short list, he couldn’t even include watching TV because it was usually just the background noise to one of those aforementioned activities. 

 

So while others he knew aspired for greatness in college, or tried out for vocational  programs, or applied for shitty jobs, worked for a weird uncle at a mech shop or waited tables in the diner down the road, he posed his nudes online and watched the view count stack up. 

 

It only took a few months for him to really take off. Nude photos, then videos, then actual sex tapes. It wasn’t long before he applied at kink.com and got the job, he was contracted out often.

 

It was funny to compare resumes with his former friends. They would put down jobs, GPAs, phone numbers to former co-workers and bosses. He would write down how many fingers he could fit in his ass on any given moment (two comfortably, three with a little effort) and that he had very few limits. 

 

Once upon a time he was just a normal guy. Now when he woke up he had to make sure he shaved every inch of his body from the neck down. Made sure his asshole was bleached. Check his email. Jerk off on a private stream every morning. Watch private donates flood his paypal as he grunted out the name of the highest bidder as he came. It was just how life was. He was usually back in bed by noon with a full stomach. 

 

Then things changed.

 

He was still fucking and getting fucked on screen with semi regularity. He was still sucking cocks for short video clips. Still jerking off on camera in his PJs, but his numbers were going down. People just stopped watching, they were dropping out. What was cute and hot for a fresh young 18 year old didn't have the same appeal when it was someone almost 30. He still knew the way to make his eyes watery and wide and innocent for the right scene but the glazed and youthful look inside his pupils didn't match the wrinkles popping up around them. 

 

Never had he felt so threatened. 

 

He tried everything. 

 

He went to the expensive makeup stores in the mall and attempted every cream, lotion, miracle cure he could find. He subscribed to mailing lists and YouTube channels. He prayed. He ordered mud masks online. He ate raw Whole Foods, organic, vegan, imported. He attended yoga and Pilates. He went to spas and had older women that never spoke English rub his creases with steamed rocks. 

 

It did not work, and the passage of time stops for no man, porn star or otherwise. 

 

He returned to his mall makeup stores and learned foundation, concealer, the tips drag queens have to offer with tape and string and covering your flaws. He hung out at gay bars and waited to hear new tricks. He played with his angles and lighting for hours in front of a room full of mirrors.   


 

Makeup only works so far. Where Theons body had been a chapel before even with his diet and rigorous sleeping schedule now it was all taking his toll. His stomach had rolls, small but clearly evident when naked. His arms lost a bit of muscle, you simply couldn't see his collarbones anymore. The urge to work out did not hit him and diets worked so far before he rewarded himself.   


 

The lost and innocent teenage boy was gone. All that was left was Theon, caked in foundation, ten pounds just over what most casting directors wanted, and with his sorry bleached asshole that would never quite look the same after the years of intrusions. 

 

There was a small niche market for him, for “older man fucked by younger boy”. He hated it. Hated being the background, the cock nobody cares about. The years in the sun had made him crave the attention of a stream crashing every five seconds because how many people were tuning in. He wanted his name to be a searched tag, not to fade to some nameless faceless background standby. He didn't want to play the man looking for a babysitter for his kids. He didn't want to play the boss or father.  Yet here he was all the same.   


 

Younger boys came. Younger girls showed up. He did his job, got a paycheck. Wasn't invited back to some sets he'd frequented for years.

 

He still did a live stream from the comfort of his bedroom now and again. Instead of “cute young twink” as his header he now used his name. “Theon Greyjoy, infamous, live, nude.” Didn't sound as good but he simply couldn't be cute or young anymore. He could be live and infamous. Once he had heard the phrase, _quit while you're ahead._ But he had never been ahead.  


 

Then, of course, things changed.   


 

He started a stream and found some loyal watchers pop in and out. Saw a few familiar names lingering in the chat. There were a handful or so of new names that would log in and out periodically as he took requests. He did requests for donations. Something he'd never had to do when younger. At twenty he simply _was_ and people drooled over him.   


 

The requests were, he found, increasingly humiliating. It was a new low to have to listen to the faceless voices online telling him to spit, suck, fuck. 

 

It was all different though when he got a notification from a strange name.   


 

The name was Snow. He was the end all be all when it comes to extreme porn. Nacho Vidal, Max Hardcore - they had nothing on this guy. He had a way of making some rough shit - but it was always art. He was never fully on camera. Theon could tell you what his cock looked like, maybe even his ass but his face was a mystery. It could be beautiful or hideous and he’d never know. 

 

_ Interested. Please email me.  _

 

It was from Snow and it came in the form of a 100 dollar paypal donation to the stream. Theon finished jerking off on camera and tried to ignore the weird hiccuping feeling inside his stomach when he thought about it. 

 

It wasn’t until late at night after he finished off a bottle of wine he sent off an email. 

 

.  


 

 

Snow told him everything was discreet and half would be paid for upfront and it was. Theon was surprised and told himself not to be as he watched his bank statement print out from his computer.

 

Ten thousand was more than he had ever gotten for any job. He worked very fucking hard to ignore the hiccuping feeling that threatened to overwhelm him. 

 

Snow called it the _Photo-studio_. As if putting an ‘official’ word on it would make it into anything other than what it was, an abandoned apartment complex in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. 

 

And Theon, well Theon thinks he’s about to get fucked. Not just in the way Snow wrote in the email,  _ there will be a safeword and if you speak it you will only receive what was paid in advance. This is nothing you can not handle if you put your mind to it.  _ He didn’t give much in the way of details but Theon was promised  _ at least five hours of strictly sex. This includes multiple penetration, possible fist insertion, fellatio, etc… _

 

It wasn’t anything he hadn't done before. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. 

 

.  


 

 

Snow was the first surprise. He was younger than Theon thought he would be. For the insane amount of money he assumed Snow would be an old man, some creep that can’t get people to fuck on his own. Theon was wrong. Snow is young, younger than he is maybe. He’s tall, build solid and thick like an oak tree. 

 

He’s not an attractive man, his face just _too much_. His lips are too wide, his eyes just a touch too far apart, his hair is long and dark and even though it feels clean when Theon dares touch it, it looks dirty. He looks like he might have some trouble but it wouldn’t be impossible to get a date. 

 

Theon knows better though, has seen some of the tapes on heavier sites. Sites he normally doesn’t go on and never has been featured on. 

 

“The safe word is Orange.” Snow says without telling Theon his real name. “You won’t need that.” Theon isn't sure if he means a name or the safe word. Neither settle right inside his chest  


 

 

.  


 

 

They are in a room, what used to be a ballroom or conference room, without appropriate furniture it is surprisingly hard to tell what the purpose of the room was. The floor is wooden and the walls are coated with wallpaper that is crumbling off. Messy and old and used. Dirty. A single white mattress sits in the center of the room, lights surround it. The mattress itself is clean, so much so it stands out. It's so white and clean it must never have been used at all before. They stand in front of the camera, with Snow angled just right so the viewer won’t see his face. He’s only a body in a dark suit in the frame. 

 

It starts off oddly. Theon thought he would be slammed to the floor in a fake rape, but he isn’t. He’s touched softly, fingers explore his body and strip his clothes off while the camera watches silently in the room in the hands of some cronie. It's sweet and totally unexpected as the hands touch him all over. They hover over buttons and zippers. They take in every second slowly.   


 

Theon lets Snow kiss him, let his tongue explore his mouth off camera. Snow tastes like peppermints and hot chocolate. It's almost upsetting to think of Snow outside of this room, think of him stopping at a coffee shop before coming here. Getting a drink. Pumping gas. Chewing gum. Checking his watch. Buying a bare mattress and lugging it all the way here.   


 

Once Theon is totally bare he feels for the first time in his life unsure of what to do next. His body on display with no partner really. He’s done solo shoots before but this is different. The tension in the room is off putting. 

 

“Tell me you love me.” Snow whispers and his voice is like an oil slick. 

 

“I love you.”  He's thankful for the direction. Theon bats his lashes at the camera and gives it his all, he pouts his lips and sucks his cheeks in and holds his breath so the camera doesn’t get an inch of his extra weight. Theon chews his bottom lip for a second and waits. 

 

When the punch comes it’s not a real surprise. He’s been telling himself it would be like this since he walked through the door. It’s a full fist to his stomach and he wasn’t sure it would be as hard as it is. It takes his breath away completely and it’s totally dizzying. He can’t help but sink to his knees. And of course there’s a cock waiting for him, hard and red and springing to life out of Snow’s unzipped pants. 

 

He can’t be surprised and it only takes a little coaxing to get him to open his mouth and suck. He was going to start as soon as he could catch and hold the air inside his lungs but Snow doesn’t want to wait and it’s okay. Theon lets him fuck his face, tucks all his teeth out of the way while Snow wraps his thick calloused hands around Theon’s head and pulls him back and forth on his cock like a doll. He knows what he signed up for, he's seen Snow fuck so many faces. Seen the way Snow pulls hair, almost feels like he's been here before.   


 

Snow doesn’t say much, doesn’t need to go the cheap route with too much dirty talk. Theon’s face tells the audience how rough this really is. His cheeks are red, his normally curly hair is already standing up on his head from the treatment, his eyes are watering as Snow leaves his overly thick prick inside his throat a tick too long. Theon struggles not to gag, a reflex he thought he had lost a long time ago.   


 

He doesn’t yell  _ suck it _ . He doesn’t say  _ you little bitch . _ This somehow makes it worse. It makes it more real and less of a stage production. There are lines to be said and he’s not following the script. Theon doesn’t get to say much, just let the drool pool in his mouth and fly out when Snow’s dick makes it’s home there between furious thrusts. Neatness doesn't matter much. 

 

Without warning Snow knocks him over, pressing on his shoulders so he falls flat on the ground on his back. The wood actually hurts and he can’t help the little moan of pain that escapes his lips as he struggles up and is pushed back down. Snow’s boot presses into his chest, forcing the air out in sick little gasps while the cameraman laughs. Theon stops struggling while Snow lifts the boot to his face.  

 

“Clean it.” 

 

And it’s nasty, it’s not a prop that’s covered in fake gunk. It’s a real life work boot that looks like it’s been through shit and back a few times. 

 

Theon licks the bottom of the boot, lets his tongue dance over the thick leather. He’s seen scenes like this and is waiting for some kind of praise. This dog and master play always has some kind of reward. It never comes. 

 

Instead he gets a swift kick to his face and he feels like can’t breath again. Something inside his mouth feels off. He notes it’s a tooth, rolling around in the back of his throat. He spits it out and the camera is there catching the moment the disgusting bloody thing exits his mouth. 

 

“Oh fuck.” The camera guy says, but it’s not like he’s in trouble. It’s more like he’s turned on.  Theon feels roiling inside of him. This is wrong. Totally wrong. This is getting a little different from the videos he's seen, but maybe his teeth are just total shit.   


 

Snow grabs him by the hair and pulls him across the room. He can pick Theon up easily but doesn’t, forces him to crawl on his knees to keep up. He ends up on the bed with his ass in the air. His face feels like a war torn country and he wants to push it into the mattress but the camera guy grabs his hair and twists so he has to face the lens. It's awkward and that's the point. It's humiliation and that's what gets these people off. Theon allows himself to be humiliated again and again and again because it's what he does best.   


 

Snow spits into his ass and forces three thick fingers into the hole without much fanfare. He tries not to scream. He doesn’t know if that’s what they want or not. Clearly when Snow forces a fourth into his unprepared asshole he’s looking for pain as if the kick wasn’t clear enough. He screams wordlessly hoping it’s helping his case. It's not something he can't handle, but it's not nice at all.   


 

He tongues the hole inside his mouth and wonders if that was worth ten thousand dollars. Yes, he thinks. It’s fine. It’s a molar in the back. Nobody will notice. He can get it replaced for that kind of money. He’s not screaming anymore as the four fingers work to clench inside him knuckle deep. 

 

Snow leans down and spits into the hole, rubbing his thumb on the skin just beneath Theon’s balls. It’s sensitive and even with the pain of the near fisting and his swollen face he feels himself getting hard. Nobody says anything still even as the fingers are removed from him. He instinctively feels the camera close up on his gaping and twitching asshole. It’s red, it hurts, it already feels raw. He knows it’s only going to get worse. He knows he can handle it. Time is going by so slowly as Snow enters him. His cock is just big enough to replace all four fingers but it’s longer.

 

Again Theon feels himself stay hard, the pain is there but it’s cut with an edge of pleasure. Something enjoyable about getting fucked raw. He was never into the BDSM stuff. Did it every now and again for a shoot but never in any extreme. Nipple clamps once or twice, a little rope bondage. He was spanked a handful of times. This is so different and he can almost feel himself slipping into some weird in between. He’s not all there, not all himself honestly. He’s sort of out of body, but Snow brings him back with a hard slap to his face. It’s not the half hearted porn start slaps but a real one. One that is suppose to hurt. His face stings and blood pools in his mouth. He opens his mouth and lets it drool out with the camera catching every juicy second. He's proud of his improve skills.  


 

Snow flips him onto his back, chokes him out until he sees stars and the edges of his vision darken. Hits him in the stomach, shoves his fingers inside Theon’s ass with his cock still there. He bites him and chews the skin until there’s nothing there and through it all Theon screams. He cries. He begs and pleads but he never says the right word. 

 

He’s made of tougher stuff than that. 

 

Snow comes in his ass. On his face. In his hair. Comes all over his cock and rubs it across his stomach. Pisses inside his mouth. Forces Theon to eat ass. 

 

Theon’s face is blotchy his mouth is bloody, his ass the color of a tomato. He knows he won’t be able to fuck anyone for a month or more but he won’t even think of orange. 

 

The camera guys fucks him next, and now nearing the four hour mark Theon discovers his name is Reek. His cock is nothing compared to Snow’s, but he hits just as hard. Snow films for a bit, then they take turns. Then they both fuck his ass at the same time and it's such a stretch that Theon swears he heard skin tear.  He feels like he's giving birth to a bowling ball.  


 

Everything is going just fine, there are pictures and videos and all kinds of good bits to sell to the right person until the knife comes out. 

 

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no.” Theon starts. 

 

Snow cuts his back while sitting on him. Won’t let him up. Won’t let him breath. Won’t let him think. It’s dizzying. It’s terrifying. When he opens his mouth  Snow sticks his fingers inside and touches the hole he fingers, fingering it.

 

It's just dragging the blade across the skin, nice and easy and it's almost okay, but Theon has been in this room for hours and it's not going to be okay. What starts soft ends hard. 

 

The knife cuts. It does more than cuts when he feels the blade actually stab into his skin, prodding him. He screams with the digits inside his throat and he bites. He can’t help it, he has to. It's natural for his mouth to shut and end the scream. Snow flips him over without breaking a sweat and hits him again so hard he sees black. Not stars, just nothing. 

 

Nothing at all. 

 

Just like what he’s becoming inside his room.

 

“Good boys don’t bite.” Snow says and his voice is so fucking full of arousal Theon can’t even process it. His eyes flutter open and still he sees nothing, faded colors take shape into blurry people. Snow. Reek. Knife. This is too much. This is all too much and five grand is a fine amount. He doesn't need to be greedy, doesn't need ten. He can walk away and take his money and run and Snow can have this fucked up film.   


 

“Orange.” Theon tries. Snow laughs and spits into his open mouth that can’t close all the way. It hurts far too much, another tooth rolls around and falls out. Maybe it’s two. Theon has lost count and his head is numb from the fists. He can not keep his eyes open all the way, Snow's saliva burns the wounds inside his maw but he tries all the same. “Orange. Orange. Orange. Please.” 

 

“No.” Snow says with a smile inside his voice. He leans so close to Theon's face he can still smell peppermint.  Snow's cock is hard and presses against Theon’s bare and still sticky abdomen. He can’t fight if he wanted to. “Your ass is wasted. Let’s try another hole.” And Theon, bless his heart - assumes he means his mouth. His bloody and disgusting mouth. He opens it and tries to comply but he can only scream when Snow cuts him deeper than before. He’s making a new one right below his belly button.

 

Every drag of the knife feels worse than before, and Theon screams because he isn’t sure what else to do. He struggles but Snow is far bigger than he is. His whole head feels like a huge bruise but his new cunt feels a thousand times worse when Snow slides in with his raw cock and fucks his guts. 

 

The blood is better than lube in some ways but every motion is new, tearing the skin. The camera doesn’t stop. This won’t be a normal movie. This isn’t just some BDSM porn. Theon knows where this is going but he gets a boot in his face, keeping him down and muffling his screams while Snow rapes his stomach. You can't create a new hole and let the person go. You can not simply fuck a person's stomach lining and let them walk away. Terror fills Theon to the brim. He feels warmth  running down his leg and Reek laughs.   


 

"Look he'd pissed himself." He hears from far away but the pain is too great.  He screams stop. He begs. He pleads. When Snow stops it's only to ruin him further. The word orange means nothing. It doesn't stop Snow from fisting his open wound.   


 

It doesn’t stop Snow from pulling out teeth. 

 

Cutting off fingers. 

 

Plucking his left eye out and sucking on it. Spitting it into Theons mouth. Fucking the hole left inside his skull. _Don't you swallow that. Don't you swallow that.  
_

 

Theon isn't Theon anymore by the time Snow has him in some kind of hold. Snow is cradling him almost like a lover, a mock of the start of the night. His hands exploring the body oozing pus and blood and cum. The body that is missing toes and fingers. Snow has taken his mind and his soul and his very self. 

 

The camera never stops. Theon’s only a shell, blood seeping from him, every inch. He can't scream. He won't scream anymore. He has no reason to scream.  And he can still hear Snow in his ears.  _ Tell me you love me. I can stop it right now. I can end this for you.  _ Snow holds the knife to his throat.  _ I’ll finish this. Tell me you love me.  _

 

“I love you.” He whimpers to the camera and the words are thick.  

 

Snow discovered that Theon was good at three things. 

 

1.Fucking.

2.Crying.

3.Dying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know where this came from and i am so sorry guys. honesty eye trauma and snuff films scare the shit out of me. feedback if you can.


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